Cryer #191



** It was party time at the ‘Cock a Hoop’ Tavern yesterday as our very own Irish Knight Sir Yaron organised a party in honour of the Patron Saint of his native land ‘St Patrick’. Dancing continued into the night. It is understood that our emerald councillor was seen staggering up from under a table this morning still clutching a tankard of the foaming brew that eventually lead to his downfall.
Our resident artist, managed a quick sketch of some of the action during the time that Sir Yaron remained upright.

St Patricks Day Party

When our reporter tried to interview the Knight this morning he replied “Drunk? I wasn’t drunk, if a man can still cry out for more, although he lies upon the floor; then he is not drunk sir!” and with that he raised his tankard, shouted “Sláinte” took a huge gulp of the dark liquid, turned green around the gills and staggered off in the direction of the outhouse.


CURSES, JINXES, HEXES or EXECRATIONS – what do they Do for you?….. absolutely nothing?

The land was hushed waiting to see the outcome of the curse that the old crone Esmeralda laid upon those who had attended the Exorcism. A certain confusion reigned; as no-one was sure what the curse would actually do. It is understood that the Knight in charge of the Legion Sir Yaron, actually wanted to put to poor old lady into the stocks!
But so far, nothing earth shattering has happened, in fact quite the reverse, the missing Jessie Miggins has returned, although she remains tight lipped about her whereabouts during the time she was away. Loose tongues around the city have been heard muttering about handsome sea captains; with dark warnings about the white slave trade. But I digress, Dart, remember him? the raving, possessed, drunken, mushroom hooked Bard; wait, isn’t that quite normal for bards?



Last time we saw Dart, he was shackled to Drindels little cart in the nave of the church. However, we have learned he is not there anymore. A story told by one small person was that an Angel had set him free to run to the Wylds. I doubt if the Wylds would welcome him with open arms, especially the small Pixie Canned as she is well known to be rather fond of Mead and the thought of a thirsty Dart running amok amongst her stock of the sweet brew would be more than a Pixie could take.

**(Editors spurious factoid: Apparently Pixies can drink at least twice their body weight of mead and still fly)

Well to cut to the chase, he hasn’t been seen since, perhaps there is a shallow grave somewhere, or maybe he lies at the bottom of the sea wrapped in chains. But in the meantime the isle is Bardless, so to speak.



It is apparent from mutterings and murmurings around the human citizens of Dee, that they believe the Hunter is responsible for the misappropriation of the Golden Goblet used by the Priest to fill with holy wine and get blotto in the nave, with his congregation once a week. I dare say they even believe he also stole the Grail; well he is that sort of person really.



Last week we asked if there had been ‘foul play’ (apparently not as Jessie returned) now we have an example of ‘Foal Play’, (As seen by our resident artist  at the St. Patricks day Party):

New Friend

This beautiful little colt was wandering alone, before joining in with the festivities mentioned elsewhere. Of course he was immediately cooed over by those females present (hands up Cali & Mysti). Now we are aware that none of the isle mares have been in foal of late, so where did it come from and who owns it?



Later, as the Hunter, the Cora Runa and the Pixie Canned were discussing the relative merits of the various methods of Mead brewing; whilst standing atop the Black ruins in the forest; what appears on the roof nearby was:?

Yes you guessed it, it was the foal. Am argument immediately broke out between the Pixie Canned, who wanted to kill the poor wee orphaned? mite; and the Hunter who stoutly maintained that as an Englishman he could not allow or condone such practices. Stating quite forcibly that his race ate neither their horses nor their dogs.

On the other hand (no Drindel not four fingers and a thumb, concentrate girl!); the Cora, at first leaning towards the viewpoint of the Pixie (a good thing, had she lent the other way she would have fallen to her doom), soon in the manner of the Human females; became positively motherly towards the the tiny equine. Gradually, she edged closer and with a continuous low melodious sound, managed to attach a rope to its halter. She asked the Hunter to take the colt to the stables in the City, which he hurriedly declined, for, as he pointed out, if those in the City saw him with the beast, he would no doubt be hanged for a horse thief.

Just then following a loud banging on the massive entrance doors, the burst open and Riven, mouthing strange words entered the ruins. The Hunter immediately leveled his bow at the breast of the man and was about to end his life on the spot; when a thought occurred to them. Why not use Riven to take the foal to the City, after all he had recently been made a Councillor (a blatant piece of nepotism if I ever saw one), so they were unlikely to hang him. Of course if they did hang him they were sure his Sister Council Leader Cali would give him a memorable funeral. So holding onto the rope off they trotted, Riven and the colt, clip clopping through the forest to the stables, followed surreptitiously by the Cora Runa, who had remembered at the last minute that Riven was in fact the butcher; and the Hunter still determined that no horse should be sacrificed to the greed of others. They watched as Riven gently lead the foal into a stall, with a hay net and a water bucket available, closed the door and then they melted back into the forest as he left for his home.



The Bard being absent, it fell to an unlikely source to provide a story for the Bardic Circle. Veldrin the Hunter was heard scoffing at the idea of St. Patrick throwing all of the snakes out of Ireland. He pointed out that the Isle of Man, situated in the Irish Sea between the coast of the English mainland and Ireland, was also void of the slithering creatures; and that there was no evidence to suggest that St. Patrick had ever repeated his feet there. To prove why he thought one shouldn’t place too much faith in Saints, he told the Story of the French Dog who was made a saint (posthumously of course), before issuing a dire warning about the probable depreciations that will ensue if the Pixie Canned was allowed near the Mead Keg; and with that he swept out.

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