“Hey there, laddie. Ya look like you’d appreciate this.”
“Hmm?” Reason looked up from their tankard of ale. The bustle of the pub had been dwindling as night fell, with most patrons heading to their rooms and homes. With Rhyme entrenched in their research, Reason found themself there often, as the company of others was better for their sanity.
A woman sat down across the table from Reason, pushing a fraying tome towards them.
“It’s a collection, stories an’ poems an’ such. Those of us grown up outside the Isle don’ always get to hear of all our traditions. I think you’d appreciate a read.”
“Really?” Reason replied, wide-eyed. “I’d love to take a peek.”
“Good! These things don’t do any good gatherin’ dust. Leaf through it, maybe add somethin’ of your own, then pass it along to someone else. Lotta Duns comin’ round these parts, not all of ‘em from the homeland.”
“Thank you,” Reason murmured, skimming through the delicate pages, already absorbed in a poem.
—
The book proved to be fascinating, and Reason, alongside Rhyme, spent many a night poring over it — pointing out their favorite passages, delighting in journals, superstitions, and recipes, and even transcribing their favorite poems to someday set to melody.
The time came to pass it along, and Reason went to slip the book into their bag before venturing out to the pub. They hesitated, but ultimately decided to slip in their own page, scrawled during a bout of inspiration and left anonymous, into the fold of the book before heading out.
…
Hrafnakastali, bleak and tall,
Does boast a fort of shadows,
Yet darker still, the lord’s great hall,
Overflows with greed and woes.
His powers spread beyond the land,
Across the sea they ever span,
And always seem to push, expand —
The lord could never fall.
The lands of Hrafnajall, once green,
Aflit with wrens and sparrows,
Would burst with bounty ne’er unseen,
Along its cliffs so narrow
The rivers burst with pike and perch
Strong lumber from the fir and birch
To hunt, one need’nt far to search
This House could never fall!
Yet poison, stirring in the keep,
Hissing past his yellowed teeth
It seeps right up from psyche deep
Onto the soil beneath.
No more could little sparrows fly,
The mountain brooks themselves ran dry,
The timber was no longer spry
But lords could never fall.
Yet rot has got a funny way
To make its company known
As one would least expect the day
When one’s to forfeit their throne.
People shaped by an upheaval,
Eras of great pain and evil,
Famished, desperate little weevil,
All bring a lord to fall.
So if your blood bestows lordship,
Perhaps you’d sit and listen,
For sloth and vanity will drip
Until your brow might glisten,
So set yourself on righteous path,
Lest whispers simmer in the rath
And you will face the people’s wrath —
That brings a lord to fall.
