At the request of a few audience members, I am publishing the epic "A
Traveller's Rest" as it was performed at the most recent New Year's
Concert, held annually in Cyrene's own Dancing Boar.

We all hope to see you there next year for recitations and musical
pieces from across the realms.

And now, A Traveller's Rest...

My pony's head is dipping ever lower as we plod
Beneath the twisted branches, and I begin to nod;
My chin bumps wearily upon my naked chest.
Will this forest never end, so I might find some rest?

It seems I've wandered, aimless, for hours upon end,
Encountering no stranger nor meeting any friend
Along the road to share a tale, a flask of ale, or bread.
The shadows pass before my eyes; I am the walking dead.

Just as my body's stiffness seems to be too much to bear,
I see a light between the trees; a sound is on the air.
The creaking of rusted hinges, firelight behind a door,
Opening and closing as wind sweeps the dusty floor.

I tether my weary pony with a lash to nearby tree
And creep up to the unlatched door, my eyes strain to see.
Inside a humble dwelling: one room, a hearth, a bed,
With rumpled bedclothes disarrayed no pillows at the head.
A sturdy table hewn of oak stands central in the room
With dishes smashed, and all about, remains of dinner strewn.
A twisted candle, tarnished ewer, a broken chair in splinters
Tells the story of neglect like a long and springless winter.

Or perhaps a struggle... yes, it seems a fight lately occurred.
For here and there are marks made by a grimly wielded sword.
But who the fighter? Who the slain? There are no bodies here.
Just the whisper of the evening wind; the fire gives no cheer.

I stand and ponder my position, how next to proceed.
If only I could ascertain who suffered or what need
I might ease with song or gold, I could give assistance.
Then weariness overtakes me and my limbs show no resistance.
I fall into a slumber deep upon the ruined bed
And dreams of otherwordly scenes take my mind instead.
A maiden fair with golden hair, a fresh strawberry scent
Fills my eyes and nostrils, and she o'er the hearth is bent.

Though her name I can not speak, I know her as my love.
I try to reach her as I watch, impotently, floating above
The room as on a silvered cloud. She doesn't see or hear,
No matter how I gaze at her, no matter my loud cheer.
I observe her silence as she cleans the cottage mess
Lifting each and every trinket with a look of deep distress.
My lady plucks a flagon from the wooden, littered floor
And rubs it gently on her hem, the surface scuffed and scored.

In the corner of my eye I see inscribed a simple letter
Upon the flagon's surface. If I could only read it better.
She takes a battered mandolin and raises it with ardour.
Now this piece I recognize! My heart pumps, beating harder.
Like a wave it hits me full across the face and chest,
A cold fear breaks upon me as I pass my dubious test.
This is my home, my lady, and my trappings scattered 'round.
How is it that I came here where no joy can now be found?

In my mindseye I recall a dread and grisly scene:
The appearance of a stranger, a struggle, and a scream.
We�d been at supper, feasting well, my lovely maid and I,
Drinking deep of love�s sweet mead, gazing eye to eye.

A knock upon the cottage door had waked us from our joy.
The stranger's eyes gleamed greedily. To pillage, to destroy
His only wish. I fought him as he forced himself inside,
Raised my hand and let it fall, a fist and face collide.
He shook his head unfazed by my attempt to drive him back.
He flashed my love a hungry look� then my mind goes black.

If he took her innocence, or harmed a single hair
I will strip the skin from off his bones without a single care.
His flesh will feed the carrion birds for years and years to come
And in his bowels maggot hordes will find a welcome home.
But she looks whole and still unspoiled, yet she hears me not.
I must awaken from this dream to measure out my lot.
If only I could call her name to see if she is real!
But am I even dreaming? So alert my senses feel.

Confound this dire predicament! What am I to do?
I stagger to the doorway as the sun glints on the dew
Of a crisp, new morning and brings a clearer sight.
The shadows part to reveal the truth of this long night.
Two bodies in a deadly embrace lay upon the grass.
My own and the stranger's; 'round his throat my hands are clasped.
From my chest still trickles the red blood of my heart
From where his dagger entered and cut my world in part.

In the clearness of the day, the puzzle now is solved;
I saved my lady with my life, with passion and resolve.
Returning to the cottage, I impart to her a kiss,
One last token of my love. Our lives should have been bliss.
But now I loose my pony from his tether and I turn
Back to the road I came down, as the sun above me burns.

I walk beneath the branches, tortured thoughts inside my head.
The shadows pass before my eyes; I am the walking dead.



Penned by my hand on the 19th of Aeguary, in the year 388 AF.