- Markshire PCs:
A Foothold guardsman steps uncertainly into the unfamiliar quarters of the Sage. He carries a piece of parchment, the letters clumsily and hastily formed.
“May I help you?”
“Err, found this ‘ere poem and copied it. Was hopin’ you might write it out in common tongue fer me. Thought it might make a nice gift fer me girl.”
“Here, let me see–ahh. Translated already, once, perhaps. Or…an elder or…different…variety of the language of our Markshire elves. Not really a love poem, though, if that’s what you’re thinking. Well, I can do it of course, though it may sound a bit rough without the touch of a real poet. Just one gold coin, if I may keep the original?”
Not really following until the last part, and certain the copied words are worthless to him, the guard readily agrees, and hands over a coin of his extra wages. Still enough for the missus’ dress, too.
The sage draws a blank parchment to him, wets his quill, and proceeds to laboriously, with several corrections, write out the following, which he then copies clean to give to the guardsman.
For many years I wandered
I toiled bled and slept
Until at least I came to find
A temple long forgotten
I sat among the ruins for days
Thinking all the time
What those mossy blocks had seen
The sadnesses and joys
And when I left I lightly trod
A new path amongst the trees
Carrying within my heart
Mossy glory all at ease
“Eh? Not much to it, is there? No romance, no battles, no heroes facing terrible odds?”
“I did warn you it might not appeal–it’s very…err… elven. Metaphysical.” Seeing the blank look on the guard’s face, the Sage points to his head. “Cerebral. Not really the way we craft poems, of course. Still, an interesting example.”