Rumor is the predecessor to Legend, is the predecessor to Myth, and so
it goes unto infinity. I will not vouch for the authenticity of this
Tale, but only say that it sounded nice when I heard it drifting to me
across the windblown peaks, echoed from the Voice of the eternal Muse.
So, read on my friend, I hope only that you are entertained...

The Dancing Boar (Cyrene's Own)

Long ago and high up in the mountain peaks
Where grizzlies prowl with razor claws,
Where alpine drakes cast shadows from the summits,
Sheep chew grasses in their ruminant jaws,

A sparkling City by a lake drew hundreds
From the blood-soaked battle fields of old wars
And tired. Here the pilgrims climbed into the range
Of star-swept mountains known forever as the Vashnars.

One fine day broke brisk and sunny, sky blue
As the distant seas, white-capped with foamy clouds.
Czanthria, our fair Lady, looked out and stretched
Her arms as she stretched a smile, wide and proud.
"A fine day for a hunt," said she and donned her gear,

Took up her blade. "If ever a better day I've seen,
All my wealth I'll gladly share with rich and poor,
It makes no difference, let them divide it in between."
She vaulted into the saddle, love-worn and rich

Upon her steed and turned his head toward the gate
To seek the quiet valleys, rivulets, and copses,
To find the game-trails and there to patiently wait.
Not long, not long, and down the mountain pranced

A boar as big as life, black as sable, hard as steel.
He bristled with a teeming hide of hair like dirks
With points a-gleaming, sharp enough her skin to peel.
"He'll look good upon my skewer," thought the Lady,

Gripping tight the ash-haft spear across her saddle.
"Snort!" said He. A taunt, if ever one�s been uttered
In these realms. She thought she saw Him waggle
His whip-like tail as He frolicked past like Blackened

Lightning streaking down the mountainside apace.
A kick and slap upon the rump of her charger
Was all to start the headlong, downhill, reckless race.
Up and down and over mountains, to the seaside

And quite beyond, the hunter and the hunted toiled,
One to escape and one to master will and blood
And sinew. The Lady would not have her pursuit foiled.
Finally in Northern Tundra where no tree would grow
The Black Boar slacked His pounding hooves.

He stopped stone still and stared into the soul of she
Who sought to spill His blood, and she was moved.
"No more," said He. She stood aghast. "I'll not run
Another weary step. Be done and gone and make

An end to spark the fire of Legend." But she found
No matter how hard her will, she could not take
His life. She turned and slowly rode the lonely trail
To Cyrene's glistening gates. As she relived the chase

In vivid colour, light flashed in her eyes. She saw
A vision of the Boar with Wisdom on His face
And laughter cascading from His mouth between
The grisly tusks. Without a care He danced a jig

Around a forest glade. And from our Lady's lips
A happy girlish laugh did fall, like a springtime sprig
Of new, green life born from the rain and sunshine.
And off went she down Ruminic to find a friend or two

To share her long and magic tale, to conspire upon
A tasty haunch and a frothy flagon of good brew.
To this day the Tavern bears the happy name with pride
Of the Dancing Boar whose frolicking saved his hairy hide.

If you wander Northward into the blissful snows
Greet Him kindly, flash a smile, and frolic as you go.

Penned by my hand on the 6th of Sarapin, in the year 393 AF.