[Nell can often be found in a tavern or by bonfire, drunkenly spinning a tale. Here you may find some such stories that the ratty sailor has told. The authenticity varies highly, and many come from a Mistan oral tradition that is just as questionable.]

The Brine King's Folly

“Y’ e’er hear o’ the Shallow-Things? Nay? Listen close-like then, n’ I’ll tell ya!” The fiery haired sailor leans in close by the firelight, rum fresh in their mug. “But first one must know-a the King o’ The Deep, the Brine King, or some call’em the King’o Crabs. A mere… princeling, ah suppose, in the realm o’ the great Siren Serene.”

Nell lifts their mug up high, wreathed by the glow of the tavern’s fire. Listen here t’ origins of the Brine King ‘imself. Once, when sirens swam the Isles and mingled with men, there was one son of such a union. The man, name lost t’ time, was favored by the Serene. ‘E swam t’ islands coasts, pluckin’ up shells n’ pearls deep in t’ reefs where none else could go. For with ‘er favor, the Siren Serene gave blessings and boons like ah right treasure trove!” The sailor holds their hands out wide, to display the breadth and grandness of these gifts.

“Indeed, the man ‘o’d become t’ Brine King swam deeper n’ deeper each time. ‘Oldin’ his breath longer n’ longer. Deeper ‘e went, n’ further from the shores, the stranger things ‘e saw in the briney deep. Legends tell ‘o great eels t’ length o’ islands themselves, sharks with long tendrils like jelly-fish what wash ashore. What strangeness can be found below, the would be king saw it all! Wonders o’ the world, just for him and those what swim deep…”

Stepping before the fire, and crouching low, Nell takes a tone of mystery, and severity, “But alas… temptations o’ the seas splendor can be hard to resist… The favored of the Serene dove yet deeper, and found in the craggy depths below, those spots where anchors don’t reach, treasures of the Serene herself. For all those things cast aside in her name are brought, by t’ tides, somewhere.”

The fiery haired storyteller stands back, “So, the fool stole the pearls and jewels from t’ Serene’s depths and swam for the surface! Yet the jewels n’ gems weighed heavy, so much more’n heavy than any gem should. The water were like sap, heavy n’ more than hard t’ swim in. The favored swam hard as ‘e could, hoping to take the great treasures. His skin…” The tone falls again, dark and moody as the fire crackles behind, “It began t’ change, y’see.”

“The jewels of the Siren Serene are cursed, as any sailor now knows. As such, the favored began t’ change. His skin began t’ harden over, barnacles sprouted from ‘is flesh! Seaweed wrapped ‘round ‘is legs, ‘n’ spines grew out ‘is back! The favored dropped some o’ the jewels, trying t’ carry less weight. ‘E dropped more ‘n’ more, yet not all, so ‘e continued t’ change. By the time he accepted his defeat, let loose but one small pearl what weighed him down, it were over. Yet in its fullness, ‘e did not know.”

“The favored returned to his people, yet they did not embrace ‘im. ‘Monster!’ They yelled, grabbed torches ‘n harpoons t’ chase him back. Confused, he did not flee, not until they attacked. Yet the man, ‘e did not die. Their weapons would not pierce the strange shell ‘e had grown. Still, he fled back to the sea, and by the coast ‘e had lost them. And in the reflection o’ the tide pools the favored knew then what ‘e had become. ‘E saw, ‘pon his brow… a crown o’ shells ‘n’ spines ‘n’ pearls.”

The sailor moves beside the hearth, out of the wreathed spotlight of the firelight. She takes a drink and looks up, “Oh, n’ his fate? Well, back in the depths, the newly crowned ‘Brine King’ made a home. Begged the Siren Serene for forgiveness. Gathered treasures, luring in sailors with a glimmer under t’ water! ‘E and his people, the Shallow-Things - which are all ‘is children and each one of ‘em a beautiful abomination in their own right, aye - ‘E and his people rarely come up t’ surface, but if’n they do, y’best stay way from those folk that come up from the brine.”

The Princep of Pearls

Rain patters rhythmically against the windows of the tavern, and a familiar sailor sits behind the fire. Once more they glance up from their drink, with a spark in their eyes.

“There’s much t’ be said on kindness- as m’ mother once told me. She told me o’ a tale, passed down from her mother, and her mother’s mother, to her. One ‘bout the Princep o’ Pearls, a great and favored child o’ the Serene from once ages past.” The sailor speaks, their voice almost matching in cadence with the calm and sometimes erratic rain as wind whips it into brief flurries.

And out the window, they look, “Once a lonely child, strong in the siren’s blood when they first mingled with our kind. The Princep, Arwyrr was their name, was bound to the water. They sat upon a large chunk of driftwood by t’ sea, and sang. They sand so loudly, so mournfully, callin’ on the darkest ‘n’ somber cords of the Melody. Their island were abandoned, gentle rains so e’erpresent it warned off t’ sailors who saw it.”

Then the storyteller turns, shifting in their seat toward the listeners. Their face half illuminated in fire, the warm light causing their red hair to shimmer just slightly. They continued, “Yet t’ voice, the great melody so rich ‘n’ heartwrenching, called t’ one who found themselves stranded. A young sailor woman crested the hill and called down t’ the Princep in worry, and awe. Down the sandy hillside the sailor went, and looked upon the Princep. Beautiful, half-siren and adorned in pearls and iridescent seashells of every color.”

Nell gives a mournful sigh, “Yet in all their singing, the Princep could not speak. But as they stopped, the gentle storm above parted, an’ only could they listen. The sailor spoke of the far off world, the isles, the people. An’ by the end of it, the Princep passed over a pearl from their hoard, and in thanks the sailor went. Calm waters, favorable winds, blessings of the Serene carried the sailor away.”

“As time passed, more folk visited t’ island. Shipwrecked, moored smugglers, each came t’ hear the Princep sing. Each came and spoke, an’ t’ each was given a pearl so beautiful in their surprise. Away they went, with the Serene’s favor for payin’ the young an’ lonely Princep a visit.”

Nell lifts a hand, up before the firelight, illuminated in the fire behind it, as though awaiting something. They continue, “Until one fateful day. There came a sailor, an old maid, who came t’ spin a tale. Eagerly she came t’ the island, and the skies parted at her welcome presence. She kept t’ Princep company, and as the Princep turned down to wordlessly give their company a pearl so beautiful, they looked up, and saw it.” The storyteller held their hand there, “A hand, outstretched, expectantly. The Princep gave the old maid the largest pearl of all, ‘n’ weeping, fled t’ the sea.”

Back into the darkness, by the gentle patter against the window, Nell retreated, “The storm returned, as the old maid departed the isle. Her ship were wracked, it battered an’ tore the sails for days, and she clutched the great pearl so close as it did. The wind carried her in circles, tauntin’ her with visions o’ distant islands with which to take refuge. She figured it were the damned Princep what cursed her, an’ took the pearl in great strides t’ toss from the ship’s edge. Yet, as the thing left her hand.” Nell lifts their hand, illuminated only briefly by distant lightning as she mimed a throw, “It turned t’ seafoam, an’ blown off by the wind which blew so great and dreadful! The old maid, ne’er a care in her heart, saw her mast torn asunder from her ship right before a great wave capsized t’ old girl, and dragged her under.”

Nell turns their face out toward the firelight again, “So take that tale as a less'n, aye. An outstretched hand, an’ a heart empty o' kindness- there becomes a curse most foul.”

King Cyrworn and the Golden Shell

[ A traditional Mistan Epic, often sung in speaking cadence with musical accompaniment. Transcribed into text for record in The Spire by Nell of Gordarda. ]

Once, in ages past, as waves worried the shores of the Isles of the Mists, there was a King among men. His name was Cyrworn, of Ganstle’s Land. In these times, the times of the sirens when once they mingled among men, the Serene would sometimes reveal herself to mortal ken. Though these revelations were often rare.

So, then, how strange it was that as the good King Cyrworn- clever, kind, and quick of fingers- did play his harp beside the water’s edge. He went alone at night, for he had always stole out from the castle to be alone, and any who found him were swiftly put to death for their intrusion. So then, arriving, did he perch upon a coastal stone to play and sing out upon the waves.

King Cyrworn played, even as the winds started to whip, and whip they did as they carried his voice out to sea- and back, a song returned. Through the song, the good and kindly King heard the great Melody, and bore witness to the Serene’s visage. His harp, dropped from his hand in awe, was caught by a hand of beauty. And up from the water, did she rise.

The Siren Serene offered the good King a boon for his song. The King named his rivals, and bid the Serene’s aid, however she could. So then the Serene made her offer, and laid out a trick for the clever King. A seashell wrought of gold, and a bet made. To offer up his kingdom to his rivals should he fail, but all their cattle and sheep- their holdings, too- should a seashell of gold come up in his hand.

A task laid, and farewells bid, the King returned to his lands and summoned forth his rivals. He levied his wager, and his enemies thinking him a mad fool took him up on it. Three rivals did heed the call, and so three ways they would split the kingdom- should the King fail, and certain of that fate they were.

So perplexed were the men, when the King dove deep into the water of the shores, and up from the depths moments later rose a shell of pure and unmistakable gold. The light of the sun above shone down and struck it clear, illuminating all. And from within the shell, came the Melody, ever so gentle.

His rivals could not believe it, and so they were bested. Yet outraged, one strode out into the water, believing the King had found a stash of golden shells hidden below and that he himself would claim them and buy back all his lost belongings. The rival did not return. A second drew arms, and tried to cut the shell from the good King’s hand, yet as he approached he heard the song and could lift his blade no longer nor wield it at all. The third, in fear, fled from the lands.

A reign of prosperity came, for the good King Cyrworn united his island. So then, he turned outwards. Carrying his golden shell always, which kept him safe. He sang into it, an agreement:

Bear me fair winds, oh Lady Serene.

In all your splendor, carry me keen.

Ne’er a token of yours deserved shall I spare,

Into your embrace, I give them there.

So if I yield folly, and fail this task,

So strike me down, is all I ask.

So out the King went, to conquer and reign. Islands, near and far fell under his banner. And so he made good on his deal, sung out to the Serene. From each land he conquered, he gave a portion of his riches to her domain. Chests of shells, gems, and fruit divine did he send into the brine.

Yet one fateful day, his son, Prince Geldyg the Noble, was felled in battle. So did he lament and lament, for the battle won and another land conquered- but his son lost, there was no greater tragedy. The Good King destroyed all that the land held, for the people that forged and carried the killing blade were all he now hated. All art torn asunder, shells smashed, fruits made to spoil and their trees cut clean. Every home burned and reduced to rubble and ash. An isle made barren, for his rage.

All the while, overhead, a storm came brewing. And all the while, upon the cord around his neck, the Melody turned sour- a warning. Days passed, and all that was there was destroyed. When once the mourning passed, King Cyrworn saw fit to set sail again, this time for home for all his conquests were for naught when his child lay dead. But as the ship sailed from port, and the storm did not part as the King had expected, he bid the Serene calm her fury.

The King begged, called, and sang- yet only a peal of thunder came in response as his ship’s mast was torn asunder by a wicked and wrathful bolt of lightning. The ship caught aflame, and the crew lept from the ship in a panic. The King, too, tried to flee but as he lept from the ship’s edge- his leg, caught on a rope, did seal his fate. Consumed in fire and drowned, the King repaid what he forsook the Serene in deals made, now broken.

Thus the fate of Good King Cyrworn.

The Mountain's Breath

[ A journal entry recounting an encounter with a ghost ship, left on a tavern table by a drunken, red haired sailor. The handwriting is shaky. ]

That ship. That damned ship. I saw it in the night, or early morning before the rise of sun. If only I had my nocturnal, though it would’ve been hard to see the Serpent’s Eye anyways. The mists were rising, and skies but barely overcast. The bright moon were distant and trapped between clouds, I think. And perhaps there was a hint of sunrise, for the banks of fog and mist grew strange in fae light. And there it were, out in the dark, through the mist and caught just on the light.

Twas up late, bottle of rum lightly supped though I swear my eyes ne’er played tricks of this kind before. Nay, with all clarity I say it was there, The Mountain’s Breath. She were prodigious, just as me mother told me. The old MB, as me mother said, was a great flagship of that old master merchant of Sirensong. His name were Kyr Odellir, I think? Cpt. Kyr Odellir.

And there it were, through the mist I reckoned it were fifty, maybe sixty meters long or more from bow to stern. Its silhouette framed in fine mist. With masts what reached up into the heavens o’er head- like great grasping hands with broken fingers splayed out and away. The sails themselves were surely woven of some cloud stuff, or perhaps seafoam and mist, I reckon- they faded in and out with the mists in mesmerizing fashion- never quite there.

Reckon I could count the number of times I’ve seen a real thunderclap in my short life on one hand alone. But there they were. I lost count, though surely there were at least thirty thunderclaps- real cannons arrayed before me on its port side! Through the fog, and the subtle moon’s light, I could see the fae glimmering off their strange shapes. Without a clue, I say, how they could work. Explosive powder? Or was it oil? Far beyond me, and oh to be lucky enough to even stand beside one. Then there its prow, cutting through the water, fierce, and glimmering just as the cannons for its ram’s head encased in bronze- or brass I think.

My wee ship were but a speck beside it, for I sailed alone that night. It were restless tossing and a sour stomach what kept me up to see the sight. And there it was. My mother told me The Mountain’s Breath were sunk, even before her time. I ought to recount it, to not forget. Was a story she heard around Marion's, brought back to tell me. Old Cpt. Odellir did battle along his great shipping lane, ferrying what must have been a king’s hoard in such vast hull. Fifty ships of pirate’s colors bore down against it. It smashed through a dozen with its prow, dug right into the midst of the pirate fleet and levied castigation upon them with its cannons.

I can only imagine the smell of burning hardwood as ships caught alight and collided. The screams of death and pleas for the Serene’s mercy. Yet no ship could stand alone for such odds. As told, the old MB sank with Cpt. Odellir going down with it, screaming curses upon all those levied against him. Swore his vengeance, he did, and held up a bundle of contracts all what say his crew thus make the same vow- or so its told. Then down beneath they went. As smoke cleared, only five ships remained.

Yet only one thing could come of such hate. The Things O’ Shallow Waters, Those Things What Reach Above. The Drowner’s call were heeded, and the ship itself, and its crew, breached back up all rotten and wrapped in barnacle and matted seaweed. The five pirate captains scattered, and fate sealed, old Cpt. Odellir sailed again, to hunt those who stood between him and his riches.

Some say each pirate aboard those ships were marked by an odd red triangle- like a mountain- upon their right hand. And those that survived, and bore children, passed the mark to them. So The Mountain’s Breath and her drowned dead but still breathing crew hunt any who bear such a mark- and wreak destruction on any who would sail before them. And any who do battle with the Drowned Ship, and survive? They too become marked. Pale breaths and cold skin hound those who bear the mark, until their end of days, so it’s said.

I could see the crew, I swear. Shadows along the deck, shifting among the twisting mist. And one hung by rope, paying the Brine King his due like I’ve done a dozen times. Except the rope were not around its waist, but its neck. Yet tar at the side, it must have done, though so far I was to see. I could smell the hot tar, such a familiar scent…

Oh, to sail as a water strider beside such an accursed leviathan. Only greed made manifest could summon such a curse. I doused my lanterns and made quiet my sails, then sank below the edge of my vessel to hide. By the time I came up again, in the ship’s great silence, it had passed. Only a foul stench of death lingered in the mists, and quickly I departed with the blessings of the wind and protection of Her Serenity. Though my guts I did empty out into the sea, for the ordeal of it all.

I’ll cast something into the waves, to be sure I don’t see such a ghost ship again. Maybe the last of this rum?

The Four Songs of Cyrworn

[ An story pertaining to the legend of King Cyrworn. Usually told to younger crowds by the traveling bards of the Mist Isles. Named for the four poems throughout, which are traditionally sung. Transcribed into text for record in The Spire by Nell of Gordarda. ]

Listen here and hear my tale, of times long ago on oceans fair. Behold, long along their keel and great with two sails each, four ranks of ship. Lo’, King Cyrworn did stand astride upon the prow, with rope in hand, and did listen to his golden seashell. For within the shell came a song of distant melody, which did guide. And following it’s council, seeking treasury and glory, the fleet of warriors and their king came upon waters most strange.

As wave did wash against the hulls of ships, there within the water did turn red. Not red with blood, nor foul omen, but red with leaves of autumn trees. Leaves so far from shore did beckon a sight, for on horizon of mist was a gentle red warmth. An isle of amber did it promise, like a great palace of oranges and reds to dance across the eye. Yet, as mist did part did wonders yet more appear.

For before them there, King Cyrworn did see- an isle that spanned out with trees of red and falling leaves. Yet of their home when they did depart, no more days could have passed to lay them in months of fall before winter did come. Nay, for there upon those sandy shores there was locked an eternal dream. And lo’, King Cyrworn arrive upon the isle of Norreed.

There, disembarking upon a shore of pure white broken only by errant leaves of warming colors, strode Cyrworn and his son. The young Prince Geldyg drew out his sword of bloodwrought bronze, yet as the young princeling glanced out upon the isle’s breadth his father lifted a hand, and called him to lay rest the blade. And then the king spoke:

Here upon a distant shore,

In Her embrace do we arrive.

As song sung of siren’s lure.

But no rock or stone for life’s deprive?

So if this land be truly pure,

Behold this place, leave all alive!

So while his men, along the shore made camp, the King and his son explored deeper into the isle. They took with them a contingent of their finest men- the champions Aeron and Nyrris, with broadaxe and agile bow each. They sought out signs of life in these lands, though kept their weapons aside. For to find any they would parley, and make talk to learn of these lands. As they strode, Cyrworn spoke in verse of the land and its beauty while his son and champions listened.

Then, far afield, cloaked in misty haze, they saw deer stride with great crown of bone. And as Nyrris lifted her bow, for such a prized beast could ne’er go to waste, the good King Cyrworn lifted his hand to the arrow’s head. He lowered it with his palm, and spoke:

Behold a beast of noble heart,

So prized in these lands.

What authority have we here,

To take its life into our hands.

Lay traps for lesser things,

But leave this place clear.

For what we find deeper in,

May have laws we must adhere.

So clever Nyrris heeded this command, and left for camp. She would set traps for foxes and hares- and no more than those. And as she went, King Cyrworn and his son- with Aeron beside- carried on.

Then, there upon their eyes befell a copse of proud and strong trees of mist’s embrace. Enough there was, each of prodigious girth, to carve out a fifth rank of ships. An auxiliary, which would make the good King Cyrworn’s fleet unstoppable against any foe. Aeron hefted his great broadaxe over his shoulder, and puffed out his chest. For such a task before him, to fell such abundance, was great indeed! Yet as he sized up his task, the good King gave sigh and said:

Ne’er trees seen so wide and high,

It would bear to reason-

To fell them all,

The task would last a season.

Yet with boughs of colored fire,

So silent here it is.

In these shadows feel I their ire,

I feel something is amiss.

Now heed my words,

Take back only branches,

It is only wise of us,

To take no chances.

From there proud Aeron did depart, with arms ladened of mere branches. No ships to be built, but firewood still to keep them warm. So then continued the young Prince Geldyg and his father, Cyrworn. And deeper still they went, until between two great mountains they arrived. Still there lay no sign of life, no old walls nor wells there were. None before had set foot upon this isle most strange and fae.

From here there came a misty lake, yet more so than the shores before. Across the lake one could not see, though Cyrworn knew it must lay at the heart of the isle. Over the waters, between the mist, motes of light shifted as dancers who carried candles. And young, noble Geldyg looked up upon his father. The good King did settle there, beside the lake. For their trek was long, and his legs weary. And as Geldyg offered his father a drink of his waterskein, his father spoke:

By this shell around my neck,

And fair lady before us,

Heed my words or render me awreck.

Geldyg- my boy so bright,

Though battles long and hard,

All for you, ‘tis why I fight.

Says I, King and bard.

So in all my days shall not I neglect,

With my blade, and yours beside,

You, and yours, I swear to protect.

This love I shall not hide.

With each word, through verse spoke, the motes of the mist did dance. They swirled and twirled into shapes so keen, gaining with the King’s growing intensity. And though the King could not see, Geldyg did behold- a maiden of light appeared there over the water. So enraptured, the boy heard not the final words of his father’s oath. But down to the good King he turned, and raised his hand out toward her. But then, he saw a tear fall upon his brave father’s cheek.

When up their heads turned, the light of those distant motes had faded. They had  dispersed back out over the lake. With a tired sigh, good Cyrworn embraced his son, and bid their return. Through night they rested, and set sail by morn. From Norreed went King Cyrworn, towards his next conquest. And it is said, he fought fiercer than ever before.

Ghost Lights of Gwennabog, and a Squall of Their Making

[ An epic, telling the creation and fate of a marshy mistan atoll known as the Gwennabog and its people. Transcribed into text for record in The Spire by Nell of Gordarda. ]

When once the Isles of the Gwennabog were sung into existence,

And there came to be people who sailed among its shallows,

The people on their punts saw out into the mist coated banks.

There on the waters surface gleaned,

There were countless lights what floated o’er water and sometimes under.

They were as stars come to visit man upon the water. And they were countless.

Countless.

The light they formed came sometimes in shapes,

They served as candles to guide those lost among the mist coated banks,

Sometimes to safe harbour,

Sometimes to their demise.

For the ghost lights, innumerable, were fickle.

Some came to tame them,

Left out bowls of goat’s milk,

Fresh fish from the hunt,

And cats emerged from the many islands,

And the lights parted for them.

The people of Gwennabog treated with the cats, who were wise and wily,

The furred beasts dashed after the lights, into the mists, and chased the unkindly away.

And they played, batting harmlessly at the kinder lights.

And the people of Gwennabog learned to differentiate.

Such was the teaching of the cats, who knew the ghost light well.

For cats, of course, could see the full form of these ghosts and weigh their spirits -

Just as they can with man.

But yet the people of Gwennabog became complacent,

As generations passed, the young became old and the old beget new youth, and each again.

Many kept the old lore, through retelling to their children.

Many forgot.

They forgot.

And when once a famine came to pass, as greater monsters came into those waters,

Such beasts chased the fishers back into the shallows, away from the nourishing deep.

Few could eat, for Gwennabog was a place of magic, not of bread nor sweet berries.

Upon those islands were only sickly gigsweed and pale white moorsberry.

Some root of cagisbush was eaten, too.

Yet not enough to sustain the villages,

And their people.

So then they looked to the goats, who’s milk they enjoyed.

They slaughtered them.

And they ate.

So then they looked to the birds, who sung among the mangroves.

They hunted them.

And they ate.

And they ate.

And hunger grew.

More beasts into those waters came, and a witch emerged to give her warning.

“Beast of sickly flesh what comes here,” Said the witch, whos name was Urgiesh.

“And no nourishment comes from the broth of their bones.” She cawwed.

And the people asked Urgiesh,

“What else may we eat?”

And Urgiesh answered.

“No food upon these shores you will find,”

“No longer should you linger here,”

“Never was this place for men,”

“You must go together, depart.”

But the people decried,

“There are great beasts in the water!”

“We should all surely drown, to flee!”

And the witch, Urgiesh, pleaded,

“I promise you this, wards I will craft,”

“Not one soul would be taken,”

“Not one ship would sink.”

“I promise you this!”

But the people, in their doubt of the wise witch, did not listen.

So then they looked to the cats, who had long held the ghost lights of Gwennabog at bay.

And they chased them.

And killed.

And they ate.

And they ate.

And they ate.

And when finally every cat who had kept them safe had been devoured,

Or chased back, back into the misty banks.

Then they came for Urgiesh, who had kept a cat of her own.

A small black cat, by name of Hylshig, weaved underfoot.

Urgiesh saw the blood soaked hands of the villagers,

And she lamented.

“What great tragedy have you set upon yourself?”

“What pride do you have, you who have survived but one more day?”

“You who would not listen to my warnings?”

“With all this you have done, will you live?”

“What end of the beasts, is there?”

But the villagers did not listen, did not falter, did not stop.

They slew Urgiesh, who fought and cast spells, and hexes, and curses most keen.

But caught not in the battle, Hylshig fled, deep into the fogs bank.

Hylshig was enraged.

Hylshig lamented,

And yowled.

And from the yowling of the cat who had lost all- their kith and kin near and far-

There then came again the ghost lights. For they had receded into the mist,

But no longer.

And they danced.

And they danced, swirled, leapt, and surged before Hylshig.

For a witch’s familiar was ever trained in their master’s most potent arts.

And a song leapt from the cat’s tongue, as sweet as siren’s breath.

Sweet as corpses.

The mist danced with the ghost lights, which flew out from Hylshig and over the isles,

And they grabbed at the mists and dragged down the clouds, and each bore a song.

And from their song, the song of Hylshig, they worked the witch’s final hex into being.

They sung her words-

Gwennabog shall never again know peace,

You, foolish people, will flee or you shall die,

For with my last breath I’ll tear your homes apiece,

I will weave for you a new season, of storms fierce,

And with this I will beckon your release!

So with magic woven and spoken out upon the many Isles of the Gwennabog,

A great squall, unlike any the world had seen before, swept over the low islands,

Bathing them in high monsoon,

And washed them fallow.

The people who had called the Isles of the Gwennabog home,

Who had wrought such death and malice upon the land,

Were set free, and in their sparse wisdom, fled.

Yet in her demise, Urgiesh had her revenge, and yet in the same breath,

Her people’s salvation.

So she rested, dead,

Hylshig now beside.

The Owllord of Elgenna Island

This tale is longer than most. It comes from a written adaption of a popular mistan play. This play is itself an adaption of the oral tradition of the Isle of Elgenna. Performed in three parts, it tells the tale of the island's discovery. It is known best as a tale of family and romance with some action and drama. It has been curated in the Spire's library by one Nell of Gordarda.

Feel free to Check It Out of the library today!

(Due to the longer length of this story, I decided to host it on Medium. If you enjoyed it, feel free to give some feedback there.)

King Cyrworn and the Singer of Steel

[ A later tale of King Cyrworn detailing the forging of a fabled blade, Alnobl, from the Pearl Coast. ]

There was known in the southern islands of the Mists a land known as the Pearl Coast. And in those days good King Cyrworn traveled too and fro in his great conquest, and in time he arrived in those southern lands. The most noble people of the Pearl Coast were in awe of the good King, and swore allegiance to him so that he would not invade their land. They did this in each city he came upon, and few gave him reason to draw arms against them. The clans of the south quickly became subjugated by his majesty, and he knew them as loyal vassals and allies each.

It was after such a visit that the most noble king heard tale of a master smith who lived upon a cliff overlooking the sea. The tale spun that this smith was known as the Singer of Steel, for his practice of singing to his blades as he forged them. In this tale, it was said, that the Singer of Steel imbued his arms with great and magical power through his songs. And so, most wisely the good King Cyrworn set off at once to find this smith to inquire about his services- for this was certainly something he must accomplish!

So armed in his finest steel from helm to sabaton, he went with shield slung around his neck. He traveled for a time until he came across a bridge, where on opposite side stood a most intimidating warrior. He wore the arms of the Pearl Coast, with fine mail and feather tipped helm. And he held in his arms a shield with fine heraldry of a yellow field with a pair of black fish. And in the other hand he bore a blade that was alight with tempestuous fire like a great torch upon a fine hilt.

King Cyrworn called out to him, “Most noble warrior who stands before me and guards this bridge, stand aside at once if you know what is good for you!”

So that the man at the far side declared, “I shall not move aside, for any who would cross this bridge has means to reach the Singer of Steel- a task I will surely not permit without a test!”

And the king replied, “Noble knight, if you are to test me and my mettle I would know what you are called.”

To which the warrior called out, “I am known as the Shield of the Yellow, and I have given many-a-man pause to cross this bridge, and fewer yet have I permitted to cross. For near all who think to challenge me find themselves bested and sent away! Now tell me, who are you?”

Then the king said, “I shall give you no name until our battle is complete, and only shall I fight you if this is amenable to you.”

“Then it shall be so, though I do not know why you would hide your name so, unless you were someone I should know.” The Shield of the Yellow replied.

“Then let us fight!” Cried the King as he drew his sword.

The two stood upon the bridge and did battle, bringing sword against sword and shield pressed against the other in heated combat. The warrior who stood opposed to the king was a most fierce warrior, who bore a blade of incredible prowess. The heat of its flames licked at King Cyrworn’s face as he guarded close with his blade. The Shield of the Yellow had a great advantage, and King Cyrworn began to fear defeat. Yet he knew that if he felt fear, the battle was already lost. So the king stood back.

“What cowardice decouples out melee?” The Shield of the Yellow asked.

“No cowardice, but a moment of strategy.” King Cyrworn replied as he strode forward again. He locked his blade to his enemy’s, then pushed fiercely forward with his shield. He knocked the warrior off balance, and with a singular blow he knocked the flaming blade from his hand and into the river below. It let up a great steam as it stuck into the riverbed by it’s blade. The King continued, “Do you yield, most noble foe?”

“I have been bested by a warrior of great prowess this day, though I do not so much as know what he is called. Dishonor will shame me until I know this thing!” The Shield of the Yellow lamented.

“Then you will know I am King Cyrworn, liege lord of these lands.” The King announced.

The warrior gasped, “By the Serene! Had I known, I would not have challenged you, good king.”

“Thus is why I had not told you, for I would not cross this bridge without first proving myself to you.” The King explained, sheathing his sword away and hanging his shield back around his neck.

“I invite you to pass, then, though I warn you will likely not find what you seek. The Singer of Steel only gives out arms to those he finds worthy, and you may yet be unworthy for him.” The Shield of the Yellow stood aside, and bid the king pass.

The good King Cyrworn carried on past the noble warrior who guarded the bridge. He saw upon the distance a cliff by the sea, upon which there was a hut with a great plume of smoke coming from it. A path led up the cliff, which the king took until he had reached the top. There he heard a most beautiful singing and saw an old man with great and long hair of snowy white hunched over an anvil. Beside him was an intense forge which belched fire. The Singer of Steel clearly stood before the king, and hammered at some blade as he watched.

The king declared, “Good smith, oh Singer of Steel, I have come before you! Look upon me, for I have come to ask of you a blade that may aid in my conquest. So skilled have I heard you to be, with a song that can enchant blades beyond anything I have seen. Tell me, was the warrior who stood at the bridge bearing that sword forged by yourself?”

The smith turned around and appeared as a wizened old man of dark complexion, with thin arms that betrayed his talent. He addressed the king, not knowing who he was, “That sword was indeed forged by me, and sung with the Song of Flaming Lament- oh what a terrible song, that yields such wonderful fire! But I see you must have defeated him, but know this, you will not find what you seek here. I bid you turn and depart at once, and leave me to my work.”

The king lamented, but said, “If that is your will, I will do so. But I ask first that you let me prove myself, so that you may forge for me a most wonderful blade as I wish. What may I do for you?”

“You are a great and noble warrior, I can tell. But for someone like you, I will not forge my blade. If you wish a blade, take this barrel and carry it down to the shore. Fill it with water, then carry it back here.” The Singer of Steel bid.

So the king did as he asked. To take the barrel to the base of the cliff was a small trial that took little effort. But, once the barrel was filled with water, it became greatly difficult to bring to the top of the hill. It took nigh an hour, and with great exertion, but the king accomplished this task and delivered the barrel.

“Now take this axe to the wood half a day’s walk to the south, and bring me back wood for my fire- and do so before the sun sets or I will be greatly displeased.” The Singer of Steel bid.

The king went with the axe, but lamented. The day was already halfway through, so how could he possibly do as was asked? He ran quickly along the trail, axe in hand, and his legs grew sore after an hour. Then, he saw a man leading a donkey through a field. The king stopped by and said, “Good traveler, I humbly ask that you loan me this donkey. Should you do this, I will not only return it but feed you this day.”

The traveler heard this, and saw that the king was of noble stock, so leant him his donkey. On which the king rode hard to the forest. He not only chopped the trees and gathered firewood, but he also hunted and caught a pair of hares. He returned along the path he came, and finding the traveler he returned the donkey and gave him one of the hares. Then, with the firewood in hand, he ran back and arrived shortly before nightfall.

“How good!” Declared the Singer of Steel who took the firewood into his hut to stoke a fire under a cauldron. He continued, “Now, return to the forest quickly and bring me food. Do so quickly, before this pot boils!”

“Ahah!” Declared the king, who revealed the spare hare he had retrieved. “I thought that you might be in want of food, so I brought this from the forest already.”

“What noble consideration!” Cried the smith, who continued, “Then I say, come morning I shall forge you the finest and keenest blade I can muster!”

And so the king and the smith enjoyed their meat, which was stewed. They rested, the king humbly sleeping on the floor. In the morning, by the time the king rose, the Singer of Steel was outside hammering away. When the king emerged from the hut, he saw there a most fine and keen blade being drawn out with steam from the barrel of water he had brought the day before. The Singer of Steel presented the king with the blade. It was beautiful, and inscribed with the name ‘Alnobl’. As the smith held it out, he sang a song, and the words of that song impressed themself along the length of the blade.

When he had finished, the smith spoke, “This blade is sharper than any other I have ever smithed, and so infused with the Melody that its blade shall never dull. It may cleave stone, ships, even the air itself with one clean blow. Take it, but tell me, to whom do I give this thing?”

“I am known as King Cyrworn, the new liege of this land who has come in conquest and fellowship.” The king declared.

“Then rejoice, good king! For this blade shall fell any enemy, nomatter the strength of their arms, and your conquest shall be certain. Only a foul fate me halt you, so go with my blessing that none may come to pass.” The smith passed the blade into the king’s hands gently.

Then, departing that place, the king returned with Alnobl in hand to his fleet. His people were so impressed that each renewed their oath to him on the spot, asking to be ordained by the blade. Each knelt before the king and were greatly honored by the blade's touch, which left a perfect cut upon the tabards they wore where the blade gently touched. They did so, and prepared for the next stop on their great conquest.