The Thalassic Thaumaturge: The Task To Trap Them.
The trawler — The Tern — tacks, trying to turn through the tempest. Toward the Togiakan taiga the transport trails, tossing, turning too. Tall, thick tides thump the torso, the taupe timber tended to tolerate this torture — though the tough, thoughtless tundra temperature threatens to tear the tub til the Tern topples, til the tensed, trimmed topsail turns to tatters.
“Time?” thunders Third Technician Thomas Tennyson.
“Three,” tuts Timekeeper Terrence T. Taylor: typically timid, today thrilled. Taylor twirls the tin, Turkish timepiece towards the taffrail. “Timetable tallies Togiaka to two. Technician, the Tern’s tyned.”
Terror takes Tennyson. “Tomfoolery! The — the tachometer!”
“The tether tore, taking the tachometer to Triton’s temple. The thrust twin to the tide that took Tilly.” Tactless Taylor turns. “Turner, Townsend too. The team’s there, the thalassic trenches. This talk’s tête-à-tête, thee to Taylor. Tender truces to the traitors, the traducers—type thorny, terse telegrams, tracing the titles, translating the theistic texts. Trust that they tarry — the Tern’s time’s temporary, transient. Thine’s too. Tick tock.”
Tears trickle. They think of their territory, turned taking through their toil, thieved today through this tsunami. “Though the Tern’s torpid, the turbine’s throttled tall, the topsail tilted towards Togiaka. The trouble, then?” they taunt, tumultuous, terrified, their tirade towards the typhoon. “The titanium technology’s tarnished? The textile threads tangled?”
“Tholes torn too,” testifies the timekeeper. “Time to tope?”
“That’s true. Tragic that there’s tentacles, though.”
“Titanic things, too.”
They twitch, tensing. “Then…the tide’s trivial! The thaumaturge’s the true trouble! Towards the transom, timeously!”
The Tern’s tonnage turned, tumultuous: televisions, telephones, tablets, trophies, tubas, trombones, trumpets, tuxedoes, turtlenecks, tweed, toques, tables, towels, teaspoons, toothpicks, trout, tuna, topaz, tires. The two tiptoe through the trunk, traversing the trashed, torn, tunnel-type tanks. “The thaumaturge’s…tricky. Tied to transport, though. The Togiakan technical/thaumaturgical team’s thirsty to tabulate their traits, their techniques. The Tern took their treasure to take them to Togiaka, though…they thought to tarry telling thee til then,” Tennyson tergiversates, “til the thaumaturge transferred to the Togiakan team’s turf.”
“The tactics transparently thin, true?”
“Too tardily. The thaumaturge’s terminating the Tern—their thaumaturgic tentacles trashing the tail, their teal thunderbolts terrible. They took Tilly, Turner, Townsend. The Tern trusted those tactics-” Taylor’s tongue turns trenchant- “that teended them today.”
Tennyson, the turnkey, teeters, toeing the threshold. “The thaumaturge’s trammeled to transport. Tricky to talk to. Take the threaded ties, the twined trusses — tolerate them to travel topside, they’ll turn the turbulent tide tranquil. Trust that, Taylor.”
The tumblers twirl, ticking through two turns. Taylor traverses the threshold, trepidatious, the torch they take trembling. “Talk!” they thunder. “Talk, treacherous thaumaturge! Terminate the tyrannical tentacles that trap the Tern!” Troublesome tranquility. “Tongue-tied? Taciturn? Thy time’s transient—thy tentacles’ll throttle thee too.”
“Thy threnody’s trying,” taunts Tobias Tsardi, thaumaturge. “Take the ties, then talk.”
Taylor tsks. “Thou’re tied, trussed—thou tries temptations? Tommyrot. Tell thy tentacles, thy thaumaturgy to turn tail. Then the ties.”
Thick threads tie Tsardi’s torso, though they’re temperate. “Thou transgressed,” they tell Taylor. “Thou troubled the transcendent Tobias Tsardi: the Tremendous, the Terrible, the Triumphant, the Tenacious, the titled, Tsar-treasured thaumaturge. Thou tries threats?” they travesty. “Thou tries to take thaumaturgy to thine tenancy?” The ties trammeling Tsardi twinkle, then the thaumaturgy triturates them. “Today, the tides turned.”
“…t-thaumaturge?” titubates Taylor, timorous. “Those threads…they’re thick, tough. To tear them..."
“Trifling.” Taylor trembles. Tsardi’s teal thaumaturgy tessellates through the trunk: terrifying, timeworn though timeless, tainted through turpitude. “Thou transgressed,” they tell them, twice this time. “Thou tempted Tobias Tsardi to tempestuous turmoil. Thus, the Tern’s torn, trampled to trailings. Together, thou’re thoroughly terminated.”
“True. The three: Taylor, Tennyson, Tsardi, trapped. The Tern, tearing, travailing thy tombstone.”
The terrible, titanic tides thunder. The Tern trembles, then topples, the timber torn to tatters. The tide takes the trawler, the tormented thaumaturge tardily, though truly, triumphant.
The Tern: Topic Two
The Tern toppled, though the Togiakan technical team took time to track the trawler, to think the task too troubling to task to three trawlers’ teams. Three? True. The Tern toppled, the Trident tarried, traveling temperately to Togiaka; the Talon tore through the tide, the Togiakan team transiting too, to the thought tract the Tern’d traveled through.
Twilight tarnishes, the tenebrous tide turning turquoise. “Ten-thirty,” ticks the technical, tarnished, tin timepiece, the Talon terminating the trip. Timber trailings thump the Talon, teal, tessellating thaumaturgy transfused through the tailings. Thermic tracking tells the team thaumaturgic tentacles tarry, thinking, threatening the Talon’s tutelage through the Tern’s trailings, taking tranquilly the threat the terrene, thrice-topsailed transport, thorny, the Togiakan team toting tumultuous tempers, tenders towards the thaumaturge’s tides.
The truce ’tween the technological, the thaumaturgical thin today.
The Togiakan team: ten technicians, theologians, theoreticians, testers. Tiffany Thorkel-Tiptree, top-ten toxicologist; Tamar Trenton Thrombley, theanthropic theologian; Tabitha Torres, theoretical topologist; Theodore T.T. Trask, thermochemist; Thalia Testarossa, trade/tariff transaction tester; Tina Torbjörn Thorsdöttir, technician; Talfryn Titus the Third, technician; Tien Trevestas, trustee; Timothy Trofimenko, theistic theologian; Tochiro Tomaki, top-tier typist. “To terminals,” Tina tells their team. “Talk to Talfryn to tally the Tern’s team, to trap that troublesome thaumaturge.”
“Tsardi tied to the Tern’s trunk though, true?” tries Tamar. “Thus trapped there, the Tern’s tombstone, the thalassic trenches. The Tern trapped the thaumaturge.”
“Then…the Tern toppled. Tsardi too, though?”
“Theoretically.” Tina tuts, troubled. “Thou’re the theologian. Timothy, too — they try thy tolerance, though. Theoretically, the theory’s tenable that Tsardi’s thaumaturgy tempts them to transhuman tenacity, true?
Tamar thinks through the topic. “The (taboo) thaumaturges’ tome thinks true. The trusty, traditional, though truly Triassic, theology textbook takes trouble to the total tetralemma: the tome, the thaumaturges, the topic, the — that transhuman tenacity. Typical tiff ’twixt the two.”
“Thee? The tome’s true?” The timepiece ticks twice. “The textbook’s true?”
Tamar ticks their tongue, thinking. “Trust the tome.”
“Terrific.” Tina turns to Talfryn, toting the tallies. They’re tall, tan, trendy, trained to take tallies through Tokyo. “Togiaka’s transmitted telegrams, Talfryn? Thought the tycoons trusted the Talon.”
“They’re trustees,” The teased Tien talks timorously treble. “Tycoons, tacit trusts — they’re terrible. Trustees transcend treasure’s turpitude, take the Togiakan team’s technical, thaumaturgical tabs. Thy taunting’s trying—try thanking them.”
“Telling that thee’d talk that, true?” taunts Talfryn. “That’s trivial, though. The technical team there’s tallied the Tern’s trailings, their tragically taken team: Tilly Twinn, twice-tributed titleholder, Ted Turner, Thompson Townsend, technician Thomas Tennyson, timekeeper Terrence Taylor. They’re trying to track Tsardi, though...their tactics — they’re thorough, true, though too thin.” Tina tuts. “The Tern’s tonnage too,” Talfryn tags to the testimony, turning tack. “There’s transistors, Tiger-type teleprinters, trackballs, thermal templates: telecommunication things, that’s the tank there. There, there’s the tuneful things: trumpets, tenor trombones, tubas, tritone-”
“Thanks, that’s tolerably thorough.” Tina’s transpicuously troubled, turns to the taffrail. “Thy toppled thyself, thaumaturge,” Tina tells the tide through Texan twang. “Thy turned the Tern to thy tombstone to terminate thy transgressions triumphantly. Thus, therefore…thou temporize, true, though thou’re trapped. Trammeled through the Talon, though thee took the Tern.”
Though the tide’s tranquil, Tina thinks that tranquility taunts them, tantamount to threats. “Thaumaturge!” they thunder, tense, tumultuous. The Togiakan team turns, taut, troubled through Tina’s tantrum. “Talk, thy tricky, treacherous, thunderstorm-throwing thaumaturge! Testify, trot through thy tentacle-transfused tide — the Talon’s the target, thus thrust, take trompement, threatened through the tierce. Take the trustworthy tussle, thou turncoat thaumaturge.”
“That transitory, tricky thaumaturge’s tiring,” Tina tells Tamar. “They took the Tern — today they’re tucked to the tide, turning taciturn tail to the threats the Talon thunders to the tides. They’ll take their time. The thought to trustworthy, tethered tussle, tête-à-tête ’tween them-”
“To thee. Thou thinks that’ll terminate to the Talon’s trade — trammeling the thaumaturge, taking them to Togiaka to truly, technically tally, true? Thou’re trained to take that thaumaturge through this terminal…tiff? Tussle?” they try. “The true ’t’ term’s tricky. Thus thou trusts that?”
“True. The thing’s-” Thick tentacles tear towards the Talon, tethering the transport tightly to the trenches. Tsardi, teal thaumaturgy twirling through the tides, transfusing the Talon’s timber, treads to the Talon’s top tier. “Tsardi.”
“Technician. Thou traded this thaumaturge to this tussle, true?”
Tina takes the trident, thorny-tined, titanium-tooled though tungsten-tipped. “True. The Talon’s task’s to take thee to Togiaka. Thou tore the Tern to tatters, though the Talon’s tougher. Thus, this theater: Try thy tenacity. Terminate thy trying to turn tail. Therefore-”
“Take thy toxin,” twitters Tiffany (the typically thoughtless toxicologist).
“Tiffany,” threatens Tina. “Tsardi?”
Their teeth twinkle. “The tussle. The Tern’s team thought they’d tolerable tactics to take Tsardi, then…” They thrive through their triumph. “That trident’s threatening, though the top thou’ll take’s tac-au-tac-“
Tobias talks, thinking they’re transparently, troublelessly triumphant. Then Tina’s trident takes their throat. “The Togiakan tasks’s to take thee, trammeled. This, though…” Tina tightens the trident, throttling the trapped thaumaturge. “The tractable thunderstorms, tides thou took the Tern through? They take thee today.”
The (true) terminus.