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Written by Catriona Eilidh Baruch The Trolls of Billy Goat Grove is a cautionary fairytale, inspired by events earlier in this Saints day and by Lord Arn Colborns warning on the trolls who will come and trade their children for our own!
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Written by Catriona Eilidh Baruch The Unicorn and the Girl is a spin-off tale of the Ayrikiv tale of Iseabail and Eilidh “The Two-Headed Bear”, referenced in the Chronicles of the Ayrikiv. It begs the question, if the twin Queens father were never cursed to never bear sons, what would have happened to his daughters?
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A New Year’s Joust [i] Flyers would be sent out to the people of Hanseti-Ruska decorated with the wax seal of the House of Baruch. A painting of the jousting grounds within the Duchy of Valwyck. Penned by the hand of Lady Eleanora Baruch Duke and Duchess-Consort Baruch are pleased to announce their hosting of a jousting tournament located at Lichtestadt to celebrate the beginning 31st year of the Second Age. Any man or woman from Hanseti-Ruska or it’s allies are invited and welcome to attend or compete in the tournament. Prizes The prize for first place will be one hundred mina provided by House Baruch along with a bouquet of Silver Roses grown in the gardens of Lichtestadt. Second place shall receive sixty mina provided by House Baruch and a bouquet of Night Tulips grown in the gardens of Lichtestadt. [OOC: Please reply with your IGN and Character Name if you plan to compete. Tournament is to be held on Thursday, July 1st at 3PM EST.] His Grace, Ruslan Eirik Baruch, Duke of Valwyck, Count of Ayr, Viscount of Voron, Baron of Laval and Riveryn, Guardian of the Haenseni Coast Her Grace, Marjorie Helaine Baruch, Duchess-Consort of Valwyck, Countess-Consort of Ayr, Vicountess-Consort of Voron, Baroness-Consort of Laval and Riveryn Her Ladyship, Eleanora Helaine Baruch established, 1581 "By Mountain, River, and Coal"
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There was nothing like reliving the old memories on their death bed, the soft gravely voices of poems and songs retold—the little strength to knead and bake bread. These few motions in life truly made her happy, from her secluded life in the manor to their small home within hanese. Nothing and she meant nothing made her happier than to share her little time left on the land with her husband. They have survived so much together, and each day another bond stronger. Though they wed on strange terms, Katharina’s heart will always hold steady in pride and honour to call the Poet hers’. She knew deep down she wasn’t the highest of light in her family’s eyes: the black sheep and the scapegoat to them. Cast out of her own through fates that were not even her fault. But she would follow obediently nought a scold out of her soft voice. It was Vorion that fought her battles where she wouldn’t. He indeed was the phrase "Words are more eloquent and proper; they duel the mind and the heart, whereas swords can only duel a body.” Such a great head on his shoulder and a heart proved he was beyond a lover and a fighter. However, he would never honestly admit it to her. She supported him in every endeavour she could. Between taking in Buck, having their children, and watching his plays come to life. She was there with a smile and muffins. The thoughts of their life filling her with peace. Her creaking bones and greying Caramel hair pulled into a bun a cough here and there. Her hand was moving to find her Husbands hand. She knew it was their final moments, and they had survived it to lie in peaceful times. Clutching it and slowly in a paining motion to face her Husband. The crinkle of her lips moving out to form a smile. “Vorion, Goodnight sleep well. And I promise: you shall never die. If here between these sheets of me we’ll lie.” A small chuckle as her eyes fluttered shut for the last time. Knowing her family will forever be healthy, and all their books sorted out. FOr those who want it here is the character card:https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1yy0Dn34lD
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The Sturmholm Folio The works of Vorloin Baruch Vorloin Baruch, shortly after the Athera Expedition Vorloin Baruch, practicing a stage-play With the recent death of poet Vorloin Baruch, it has been requested by his will that his folio be published to the world at large. All that follows is the work of poet, who used the pen-name of Vorloin Sturmholm Editor’s note: For some reason, all of Mr Baruch’s writings refer to himself as ‘Vorion’, instead of ‘Vorloin’. Regardless of whatever caused this error, it has been corrected. ‘Almost all of these poems follow iambic pentameter, and most of them also are sonnets, with three rhyming quatrains and one couplet. Their themes range from loss and death, to love and life. May they strike your hearts, as they struck at least a couple’ - V. Baruch ((Music:)) O Father O Father, years have passed since fall of void, Yet I am left to sit and weep in prayer In days of freedom, Grief I have enjoyed Not, for that was the gift you chose to bear. O father, son of the herons marine Will you still love me as you once did then? To be a stouter son of meager means Or born a lesser prince of greater men? O father, torn from life, curse me now, words born from an acid, venomous tongue Will far outstip those that no longer vow To those whom once you genty, softly sung. They say the blood of covenant should wear Pains fierce; yet still I weep for water's share The Good Men I wonder, where have all the good men gone? I saw them ride unto the setting sun, One which they would never again see dawn, Fighting a battle that is still not won. I ask you, where do all the great kings lie? It is under a pile of ash and ruin Deathless since they were forced to cast the die, They lie, resting beside their royal kin. I pray you, where do all the lost souls go? For we see them no more, eternally They lie, lost in silver linings of snow. Lost to wisps of time, waiting, merrily. We wait for when the time should finally bend To meet again at last: all the good men Katharina’s Song If only the swans were as fair as I, They could shatter the moon with their beauty, They could ensnare the mighty lords on high, They could make Kingsguard flee from duty, If only the swans were as fair as I. If only the autumn leaves had my grace, They’d flutter as if dancers on a stage, They’d rustle as if they’d no other place, They'd read far more than any written page, If only the autumn leaves had my grace. If only the stormcrows could sing like me, They would enchant the creatures of the grove, They would lure sailors, like sirens on the sea, They would be diamond to all those who rove, If only the stormcrows could sing like me. The Sunset I passed through mists, and peered beyond the veil To see thee, at least, what seemed to be. Towards the earth the sun had set her sail, And her beauty almost matched your degree. For first I found the flowering lips of rose When, burning bright, a wildfire they blazed. How could the setting sun compare to those: The memory that shall never be erased. But soon I fell into a tender blue, The eyes which could the oceans entire keep. How could the sky hold a candle to you, When epics could be wrought for those eyes deep? And so I promise: you shall never die If here between these sheets of me you'll lie. Godan’s Muse I've ventured 'cross some cold, bleak, distant peaks, But there is naught to e’er compare to thee. The peerless blue above those velvet cheeks: The moonlight to calm every stormy sea. I rolled on waves and I’ve seen dawnings fair, But their beauty can only ever yield To radiance cast by golden strands of hair: The sunlight to sow every fallow field. I’ve cleft the ocean twain on mighty ships, But thus you made the nightingale cry: None could hope to reflect those rosen lips, A flower to charm e’ery wandering eye Then, since lands and sky all hold beauty, I so conclude that Godan’s muse was thee. The Holes of Wintertime Deep in the holes of wintertime I woke Next to your side, by a warm fire of oak. You whispered so quietly in the cold, From your lips wisps of mist did twist and fold. You spoke to me about the spring softly, Said it was made by the lord above, for me. That he made it so we could gently lie Betwixt these hills until one day we die. Hidden way from the warmth of a summer’s Sun, away from the march of the dummers’ Drums, lying under golden oaken leaves, I told you I love you beneath those trees. And yet at last, when the autumn leaves fell You said you were no more under my spell I thought I’d stay together with you, so fair, But you left me there. Soeng Karoseo And the common translation: A Song of Crows Usaer zezr haulyy haldae haenzi Wiem hag dercurvsk denraat, huil zwyzi Padrevar Ybiseo vzrarev kuz koeng Luzeng weld ag wauldlund: Kholv ag walic They poured ‘cross sea upon coasts haeseni At dawn slaying the weak and lame, then these Sons of Iblees set out unto the king Along woodlands, marshes: cold and soaking. Karos kyghyntae zwyen bottel routae Karos trazk raez humovsk viktry velyae. Krusae vatragan ag Godan zakisk: Kursin ag zvaerd usaer byk drazativsk And as honour demands that war be brought The crows struck out to seize the victory sought. Of hearth and faith they were a stalwart shield: With coats of arms and shining blades of steel. Nat lund vatragano supaes szar triek, Va rotasseran nie vokja byk tuek Tamort lafsk hauchoxtzen, lauderre, herzen. Zejr kvesja, warae laujisk aestbrein Upon the fields of flame their spears did meet And dawn ‘til dusk no army knew defeat. There fell warriors great, peasants and lords Above the mud, where Godan’s heavens poured Wiem mortesk feinvrago, tiz stratlyy rot Ag zinsk maeno weo fitsk dlum supaes Got They broke the horde, the rivers stained with blood And sang of men who gave their lives for God. ‘May the storms part in your passing' - Sturmholm family proverb
