Envinyatar poured half his mug into a bowl and offered it to the dragon. In turn, Angara dipped her snout gracefully into the dark, foamy liquid and sipped up a generous measure of the ale. Her tongue flicked out as she finished and swiped the faint line of foam delicately from round her lips. He watched her, fascinated by the agility of her long tongue. And catching a glimpse of her sharp teeth, wondered if she ever cut the soft-looking skin on the under side of that tongue as it withdrew back into her mouth.
“Ahh, the things one does not know about dragons,” he thought. “And best not ask about, either.” Angara, he had noted, could be quite sharp in her reaction and quick to be vexed. Envinyatar chuckled softly to himself. “But then she doesn’t know me, either.”
As if she had caught the drift of his meandering thoughts, Angara turned her head toward him and narrowed her gaze. Before she could say a word, Envinyatar turned his full attention on her and gave her his own toothy grin.
“You know,” he began, wagging his finger at her. “I think I have a
song, poem really, you just might like. I heard it from a fellow some time ago who’d just passed through the Withered Heath.” He shook his head, as the dragon cocked her head at him. “Yes, that very valley where old Smaug once dwelt.”
Envinyatar nodded at the recollection of the rough, old fellow who’d shared his camp fire one cold, dark, windy night. “Now he sang it fine, but no, I’m really not the singing sort. For the life of me, I cannot carry a tune.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But, I’ve a good memory and do love the flow of the rhythm of well placed words.” “It’s like a stream running over and ‘round and even under things,” he went on, “carrying those different water sounds, blending them in a such a way as to be pleasant to the ear and spirit.”
Pulling his chair closer to where Angara perched on the table’s top, Envinyatar began reciting in a low, cadenced rhythm.
The wind was on the withered heath,
but in the forest stirred no leaf:
there shadows lay by night and day,
and dark things silent crept beneath.
The wind came down from mountains cold,
and like a tide it roared and rolled;
the branches groaned, the forest moaned,
and leaves were laid upon the mould.
The wind went on from West to East;
all movement in the forest ceased,
but shrill and harsh across the marsh
its whistling voices were released.
The grasses hissed, their tassels bent,
the reeds were rattling—on it went
o'er shaken pool under heavens cool
where racing clouds were torn and rent.
It passed the lonely Mountain bare
and swept above the dragon's lair:
there black and dark lay boulders stark
and flying smoke was in the air.
It left the world and took its flight
over the wide seas of the night.
The moon set sail upon the gale,
and stars were fanned to leaping light.
“Hmmm,” Envinyatar murmured as the last words faded from hearing, the desolate image dissolving, too. “Still brings a shiver to my spine,” he said quietly.
He shook off the chill as he raised his mug up high, above his head.
“And here’s to The Barrow-Wight – the author of this night’s celebration. May his life be long, his glass never empty, and his patience deep for us passing strangers in his realm!”