Moireg had traveled far from his home,
from the great southern land where he used to roam.
Past mountains that stood tall and grand,
separating the kingdom of men from dragon land.
The North held men in a kingdom so wide,
while Dragon-kin ruled with power and pride.
The Empire of the Kioah, mighty and vast,
yet close in the minds of those who heard tales of the past.
A great empress, from lands beyond dreams,
ruled a realm where her power gleams.
Her husband, the Northern race’s pride,
long since dead, yet she still presides,
Lines of years on her immortal face,
seen deaths of kin in war’s cruel embrace.
Songs remain of the bright Phoenix’s lore,
her soul sundered, her body bore.
The Emperor gave his life for his kin,
returned to Kioah, fair yet mortal within,
forged an alliance, peace to ensure,
centuries lasted, their union pure,
strange to all who watched it unfold,
a tale of love and power bold.
And there was the fair lady, a princess so true,
who forsook all for love, her heart anew.
A mariner good, restored his family’s name,
undefeated by the Queen’s wrath and fame.
She ruled for three hundred years, strong and wise,
kept the North’s secret, hidden from prying eyes,
until the call for aid could no longer be ignored,
the Kingdom of the North, its strength restored.
And shall I speak of treachery so dire,
the sorceress and captain, their dark desire?
She turned coat to her designs, power to gain,
enslaved the world, brought wrath and pain,
her pride proved to be her ultimate fall,
a tale of strife, too dark to recall.
Not now, for this time is happy and bright,
such tales of darkness, best kept from sight,
too long to fit in a tale so brief.
For now, we leave behind the grief.
But let us think on other matters, tales to tell,
of Moireg and the story he heard so well.
In the Far-Away Kingdom, a romance did bloom,
between man and messenger, in winter’s gloom.
‘Twas deepest winter in the Northern Kingdom fair,
celebrating saints with joy in the air,
lives dedicated to their chosen divine,
living in eternity, their spirits shine.
Snow fell deep, reaching a man’s knees,
hardly moving, yet hearts at ease,
people merry, trudging with joy so bright,
enduring cold, celebrating in the night.
Wreaths of fir, berries, and ferns adorned,
rare winter flowers, in spring they mourned.
Warm fires burned, inside and out.
Merchants sang, food scents about.
Cearbrethanac, the festival’s name.
Moireg watched, his heart aflame.
Dusky hair, face tight with years,
sadness and travels, long with fears,
from his birthland, disgraced and forlorn,
Apovlitos, where outcasts are born.
Long he suffered, confinement his choice,
atoning for sins, silencing his voice.
Varjo, the shadow walker, feared by all,
bringing fear to rebels, making them fall.
He pulled his cloak tighter ’round his weary frame,
no warmth or solace since freedom came.
He watched the festivities, hunger gnawed.
Unable to withstand, to an inn he trod.
Music of fiddles, guitars, laughter, and joy,
pure and kind, unlike Apovlitos’ ploy.
Moireg asked for ale and the cheapest fare,
hunger growing, memories of days unfair.
He sat far from the joyful, dancing throng,
in the midst, a bride in a dress adorned long.
Roses of red hues, veil fluttered around,
dancing quickly, roses falling to the ground.
A boy close to manhood watched her dance,
entranced by her raven hair, in a trance,
he fell to his knees, raptured by her grace,
a heavenly woman, twirling in the space.
Food and drink came by a tavern wench’s hand.
She sat across, watching the play so grand.
“Thou art not of this kingdom, I see it clear,
in thy clothes and face, weary from travel here.
of the Dragon-kin of the South, thou art,
I hath seen them, though memories depart.
What brings thee hence? Surely not this inn,
that hast brought thee here, where tales begin.”
And Moireg saw her, once a vision bright,
now older, careworn, yet not in life’s night.
He said, “I flee from that which none deserve,
no man or demon, such memories serve.
Even the thought is too terrible to share,
I seek rest and refreshment, to repair.
But tell me, what story do they act?
Is a bride so important, in this tale’s pact?”
“Ah, this bride was a woman of great power,
a messenger of Ieaba, in darkest hour.
She rid us of plague, took it upon herself,
winning our Prince’s heart, now on death’s shelf.
If thou shalt stay, I shall tell thee the story,
of the Lady of Roses, in all her glory.
Myfanwy, and Cedwyn, our Prince so dear,
King of the Southern Kingdom, far and near.”
Until next time,
M.J.
The Tanuki Corner 
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