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Tavern Songs

Light Bulbs

Songs, poems, ditties, and more, done at the request of the writers of the stories the works below allude to. If you want to learn more about these stories after reading these, follow the accompanying links (where available)

And odes and prophecies and the like

Placeholder images, will change them soon(ish)

The Tragedy Of Master Brendagger

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First up, we have a tale from a book penned and published by one Christy Miller. (LINKS TO FOLLOW.) It's a tale of piracy, strife and tragedy.

Dark was the night and dreadful the waves
When the sight of the blight of Leviathan,
Those creaking-coarse sails; those foul, reeking knaves,
Appeared with the gales off fair Amall's sands.

They came for the blood and the sport they adored,
They came for the treasure they'd pluck from the dead,
They thought to ignore worthy Roanfire's scorn,
They thought they could match us for daring and dread.

When word reached the ear of one Master Brendagger,
Of foul pirate swine drawing near o'er the brine,
Bold Eamon Brendagger tarried not but bestirred
A force fit to fight, of fifteen-score and nine.

Some were the veterans of long bygone wars,
Some were but beardless young blades new to blood,
Some were but tradesmen, from their day's labor torn,
All were summoned to stand firm 'gainst the flood.

Good Master Brendagger led his small army
With urging and urgency through the cold night
To dawn's first fair gleam and the sand and the sea
Driven and wrathful and ready to fight.

And there were the broad-armed Leviathan raiders,
There were the ships with their bows 'gainst the beach.
There swaggered the rats who came as invaders,
And now a fine lesson brave Roanfire would teach.

This small force of Roanfire caught the pirate scum
In the midst of their disembarkation.
With their strength cut in half, they were truly undone,
Our Roanfire warriors wrought devastation.

Three ships full of filth were set alight swiftly,
Three ships half-emptied were taken and held,
Three ships bearing cowards turned straight round to flee,
Three hundred Leviathan swine justly fell.

Bold Master Brendagger, his dread sword in hand
Led an attack so swift and so daring,
The pirates were scattered ere any could plan
Some scheme which might hinder their rightful undoing.

In barely an hour the day had been won,
In barely an hour the coast was secured,
But passed that fair hour, cruel fate had its fun,
In the form of a scout on a destrier.

The lad told a tale of a single ship
Broke off from the fleet, further south to alight.
By light of the moon, to Daram they slipped,
And Daram they plundered and left set alight.

The hero Brendagger from Daram did hail,
The hero's own wife and young son there did dwell,
To hear such fell news, e'en his hero's heart quailed,
He made straight for home and he prayed all be well.

But his eyes did confirm what his heart did forbode,
Daram was destroyed, there were none left alive.
He found blood and bone crushed beneath his abode,
A wisp of the evils the pirates contrived.

And they slew Master Brendagger's soul with this deed,
And they cast Master Brendagger's heart to the ground.
This hero of old lives on in wine's relief,
And now only in taverns can poor Brendagger be found.

The Trials of Zheann

It should be noted that in a lot of cases, I strive to write these songs from the perspective of bards and minstrels plying their trade by recounting the facts of the stories the writers would have me write songs for. In practice however, said bards probably wouldn't know all the details. One more reason why it's best to check out the stories themselves to find out what actually happened.

Anyway, here we have a song involving familial hardship, regicide and the occupation of a people by a conquering nation... and such pleasantly mundane circumstances the people may look back on with fondness considering the dark days and ancient, powerful creatures returned to the world.

Requested by Karen Keil:


How strange are the days when the song I now sing
Is at its simplest with the death of a king;
Murdered by two who next set to questing
For the mountain where dragons lay waiting.

Perhaps they sought chaos to cover their tracks,
Perhaps in the thrall of mad hope they attacked
Or maybe t’was king’s blood they needed to crack
The wards of the mountain, and bring dragons back.

A Rys hight Zheann, the heroine here,
By Med’s cold command must hunt what is dear,
Her husband and cousin, the king they did spear,
And went to loose catastrophe, she feared.

Long was the journey and longer the nights,
Sleepless and frozen in winter’s strong bite,
All thoughts were of madness, no part of it right,
The heartache and fear, it held Zheann tight.

Yer hers was a strength and a skill of renown
And she would keep going till her kin were found,
Not to avenge the Med’s stolen crown
But so the world itself would not burn down.

When she came at last to the grim mountain
She found the fabled cave and charged within,
And soon shook the stone with the echoing
Of her desperate calls for her lunatic kin.

For a trice, all the fear and pain was replaced
When she found her husband and saw on his face
Such joy and such certainty, they soon embraced,
Heeding no ill in the depths of that place.

‘We’ve done it my love, the dragons are free!
In moments their magnificence you’ll see,
They’ll have our people freed from Med tyranny,
That, and so much more, they’ve promised to me.’

The world may share the glare Zheann gave then,
For we have seen the doom which still descends;
Ancient magic, and the dragons, freed to rend,
Whilst outraged nature riots, this madness to mend.

A dark age has come which we don’t understand,
Which makes the old harshness seem cheerful and grand.
‘Gainst monsters and madness we must try to stand
And pray that the end of the world’s not at hand.

But hope still endured, for some dare face all,
Zheann’s never shirked from the heroine’s call.
‘Gainst dragons and deluge she has stood tall,
‘Gainst stubborn tyranny she chances at gall.

Tis a matter of fact, you can take it from me,
That if not for her we’d be claimed by the sea,
The future holds more than catastrophe,
But the future’s story we must wait to see.

The Trials of Zheann

Eren was of Goddess Born...

A bard besotted with his or her subject matter could easily get carried away. It's an occupational hazard.

Here we have a request by Serena Dawson for an ode to one of her heroines. With the aforementioned bard mindset guiding me, I'll admit I went beyond the information she provided... a little.


Eren was of Goddess born,
At least so I'm convinced,
Her deeds and stature, so much more
Than all folk's, then or since.
Eren was a soldier true
And iron was her arm,
Swift and straight her arrows flew
All ever sure to harm.

When once invaders journeyed here,
A demon for their chief,
Eren came, to her army's cheers,
To bring our realm relief.
A hundred men she shot or slashed,
Or cast into the lake,
To reach the demon, whom she thrashed
Until his pate did break.

And when our wars were done at last
She was no less adored
Suitors came in legions vast,
To kneel at her door.
Barons, Dukes, a Prince or two,
Were drawn like moths to flame,
And yet her choice left all to rue,
A soldier of no fame.

Wars had worn his handsome face,
And stole his good right arm.
Perhaps twas thus where lay the grace,
A heroine to charm.
Long they lived and happily,
And died ten years ago,
And Eren's like shall ne're be seen
Again, least so I trow.

Eren was of Goddess Born...

Avenge our King / Long Live the Living Queen

Something for one Allan Price (LINKS TO FOLLOW). His story involves a rather complicated political situation which required two songs, both of markedly opposite opinions to the other.

The age of worthy strength is over,
Wisdom and power have rotted and waned,
Our rightful king is betrayed and murdered,
Let all mourn; Alaric the Just is and slain.

One day from the war front was our king,
Marching to fight beside loyal soldiers,
When traitors' blades and faithless leeching
Robbed him of life and deathless power.

If you would learn whose scheming hand
Has taken our beloved king away,
Look to his throne and the harridan
Who rules the realm in these terrible days.

Firebrand, vile traitress, evil thing,
Seducer and power-hungry despot.
In magic, in wisdom, in might all lacking,
King Alaric was all that she is not.

Alaric's law and justice has vanished,
Anarchy and blood have taken their place.
The king's loyal aides are blinded and banished,
His palace becomes a scene of disgrace.

And worse than this, a force of hunters
Is tasked to catch our late king's family.
Firebrand knows an heir could depose her
And thus she has ordered such butchery.

Let it be the charge of any still true
To seek out the kin of the worthiest king,
And to do whate'er duty bids them do,
In the usurped Empire's restoring.

The tyrant is bled, the tyrant is dead!
Alaric is no more!
With his rotting hide is well left behind
A legacy abhorred.

Near a new battle plain his half-rotted brain
Waylaid him in a fog.
He shambled round till he fell down
And sank into a bog.

Of cheers give three for sanity!
It rules this bloodied realm.
Of cheers give three for the great Lady
Who rose when madness fell.

By the plans of Queen Firebrand,
Our foes were swept aside.
She earned the support of the army and court,
Who stand proud at her side.

Evil, corrupt men, three-score and ten,
Within the dungeon wait.
No tyrant's favour now deters
Their rightful, wrathful fate.

So many rejoice and with loud voice
Give praise to their just Queen,
In whose rule we find such joy and such pride
Which ne're before has been.

Let we who are saved remember this day,
A Golden Age has come.
Long live Firebrand, blessed be her lands!
Give thanks for all yet to come.

Avenge our King/Long Live the Livng Queen

Thomas Graves, the Sorcerer Saint

Here's one for Talula Belle Tortie, focused on a key moment and key character in her story. The minstrel in question here, I imagine, is one voice amidst many saying much the same thing, a young and passionate community praising their hero and the destiny they believe he's gifted to them.


The fair ship Harvest left England’s shores

With souls on board six-score and more;

In faith they’d make for young Jamestown,

But instead a hellish tempest found.


The waves pressed sore each plank and hatch

T’was Many a poor sailor thus dispatched,

O’erboard thrown, by the depths swift-snatched,

This Hell-storm held tight its Christian catch.


But through tempest’s worst, scorning storm and cold,

A man stepped forth from out the Harvest’s hold,

Thomas Graves was he, thrice-blessed and bold,

He gained the stern as Harvest rolled.


None but his wife who followed after

Knew by what ways was Heaven’s favour

Called forth to split the storm asunder

By Thomas Graves, the holy sorcerer.


In half of a trice the tempest was through,

And high o’er the ship lay unceasing blue,

The hearts of the Harvest’s passengers and crew

Were thankful and gay, delivered from doom.


Riotous rang the cheers for their saviour

This man, Thomas Graves, from Heaven sent hither

Who wrought and fought with celestial fire

And drove the Harvest o’er elysian water.


By his gift and the grace by God given to he

He drove our forebears to their destiny,

That land which was lost by Adam and Eve

The Garden of Eden, reclaimed by the holy.


E’er-more we’ll give praise to the last of the saints,

From the world which was surely condemned by sin’s taint.

Yet for that olde Earth, let there be ne’re a plaint.

Waste no wisp of grief on those God doth attaint.


For the chaff has been burned, and spared is the wheat,

With Edenland raised, God’s will is complete.

Thomas Graves, the Sorcerer Saint
The Grisly Murder of Aleksander

The Grisly Murder of Aleksander

Things aren't always what they seem, and no matter how sure you are of the ending... well... you'll see.

Here's one based on the writings of Johnny Ritenbaugh, as the title suggests it's a little on the grim side.


Aleksander slumped in the arms of a Queen,
Her limestone chest bore the last of his screams
Whilst falling rain washed the blood at her feet clean.

Nearby stood the evil-hearted watchers,
The false druid and his savage followers,
Delighting through the night of tortures.

Many turns they took to hold the whip
And burning spike and blade, the young flesh to rip
Dancing to the pain which 'scaped his quaking lips.

Flail, blade 
and brand
Destroy the flesh of man.

Brand, flail 
and blade,
For spite's own sake they played

Blade, brand 
and flail,
Their victim grew so frail,

Flail, blade 
and brand,
A Murder close at hand.

The Druid came up close and whispered
In the ear of he who suffered
One sick promise after another.

'...And when our fun is done we'll set you free,
Toothless, tongueless, armless, back to the city,
I want those fools who fawned on you to see.

'Twisted, shattered, foul monstrosity,

Testament to that most foolish folly,
Daring to stand in 
challenge to me.

Croak, wheeze 
and sigh,
Aleksander's three replies.

Sigh, croak 
and wheeze
He could not breathe with ease

Wheeze, sigh 
and croak,
Yet nothing need 
be spoke,

Croak, wheeze 
and sigh,
The Murder's time is nigh.

In numbers 
past a day spent counting,
Came the corvine horde all cawing,
To their Lord's aid and his captors' goring.

The wisest ran, some fools did try to fight,
But the crows caught all and held them tight
And did their worst with claw and beakish bite.

Meanwhile more tore through their good Lord's bonds,
Two hundred of their backs they set him on,
A massive flurry and Aleksander was gone.

Peck, claw 
and beak,
Oh how the carrion shrieked!

Beak, peck 
and claw,
Until they shrieked no more.

claw, beak
and peck,
They gulped down every fleck.

Peck, claw 
and beak,
Murder, swift and sleek.

The Ballad of Mikhail Reveltor

The Ballad of Mikhail Reveltor

To quote Tolkien, this tale grew with the telling, to the point where it'll be best if I leave it as a downloadable PDF. This is a tale of a character belonging to Ann Lee, the Elven thief Mikhail Reveltor; the worst and best of thieves who'll experience the worst and best of luck in the aftermath of an interrupted heist at a noble estate.

Raven's Night

Something for one Mr. Doug Turner for his roguish character Ayleth, or 'The Raven'. Bane of the wealthy, heroine to the poor, confounder of the guards, (especially if it's the bards telling her tale.)

Raven's Night

Take a walk about the wealthy quarter one dark night,
See if you can't hear some rich fools' teeth chatter in fright,
Or maybe chance a grin to answer wails of dismay
From once wealthier weasels who became the Raven's prey.

Darkest of the moonlight's shadows,
Drifting by the swiftest eyes,
Climbing through the tallest windows
Of the swine we all despise.

With the morning she has vanished
But her mark is everywhere,
Wealth and treasure she has banished
To a starving pauper's care.

If by day you see a churlish peacock-clad rich swine,
Kicking at those poorer, whilst with every word they whine,
I urge you friend, be patient, for they'll catch the Raven's sight,
And never stand so proud once they have felt the Raven's bite.

Darkest of the moonlight's shadows,
Drifting by the swiftest eyes,
Climbing through the tallest windows
Of the swine we all despise.

With the morning she'll have flown,
And all the vain value the most,
They'll find that they no longer own
And in their grief stay long engrossed.

Maybe you might hear the clumsy clamor of the guards,
Chasing shadows on the roofs, each wheezing pant so hard,
Not a one of these sad snipes can clip the Raven's wings,
Not a one can keep from her the wealthy's pretty things.

Darkest of the moonlight's shadows,
Drifting by the swiftest eyes,
Climbing through the tallest windows
Of the swine we all despise.

With the dawn she's disappeared
And none have seen her in the light,
From the law she's naught to fear,
They'll never stop the Raven's flight.

As you walk the winding streets a beggar you might pass,
Smiling strangely and with something in their thin hand clasped,
Or else through her shack's window weeps a shocked and starving mother,
She and hers shall live thanks to the gift the Raven left her.

Darkest of the moonlight's shadows,
Drifting by the swiftest eyes,
Climbing through the tallest windows
Of the swine we all despise.

With the dawn she must depart
And leave the side of the poor,
She must hide from their grateful hearts
But shall leave for them her score.

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