[Kransha]

“You wish to rest your voice, good sirs,” said Osric to Liornung and Hearpwine, “and well you should. My voice has been found and, if you mind it not, I will take up the ears of your avid listeners while you recuperate. I do not seek to take your thrones, my friends, so I will merely see if I can recall the lore I once knew.” Osric had his chance as some words and ragged verse returned to him after a lengthy hiatus from his knowledge. He could re-learn any of his old ballads at the time he wished, but had not seen the need. The man of Aldburg, scooted his chair further, looking from person to person throughout the light-dappled room.

“An ode of my own is what I have for now. I am no minstrel, friends, but as much a poet as a fool, I assure you.” The aged man’s eyes sparkled with sunny warmth as he laughed in his throat, “When it comes to me, battle tales and feats of heroism shall be the topic of my verses, but for the moment I can only stutter about with poetry. I’ll regale you all with an old composition, a bumbling rhyme I wrote for a more human purpose than glory. So, for wont of a better name, here’s a little something I concocted an age ago, but if they desire it, Miss Maercwen may take it with her from here. I am need of a fair maid for a target, so if you would subjugate yourself to such a blow, even if my words are dire in their course?” he joked.

As Osric chuckled slightly while Maercwen, or Mae as he now knew she was known, gave a polite nod, tempered with a jovial look, “I would be honored to accept that position, sir, regardless of the dangers.” She replied gracefully, stifling a laugh of her own that prompted a smile from her uncle.

“I thank you for that, milady.” He said, still laughing more energetically than he’d thought himself capable of doing. All these young faces, less hardened and stony than the ones he was used to. It was a welcome sight for Osric. The old man, his sagged face lightening up as he reared himself back in the small, wooden chair, rested his rough hands upon his knees, and began a calm recitation. It was not somber, nor was it a happy piece, but hovering somewhere in between. There was no true tune, no notes to accompany it, but it held a meter well enough to go on steadily as a mild hush fell on this area of the room, most ears aimed respectfully at the venerable figure who had suddenly become so engrossed in his words.

“Am I well versed in verse in company?
In clever seasons need I seasoning?
‘Round thee may words make thee in ways many?
Can rhyme and reason seem more reasoning?

And even now I struggle with this line,
For I was never less witty than now.
This moment christened by all graces thine
That seemingly words seem too much to tow.

The reason of this I know not the cost.
But should I hit it right to say it’s this;
That cleverness becomes an item lost
When wits tested within such august bliss.

Given the chance thy beauty to adore,
My princely prose turns to a poem poor.”

As the hush remained upon Osric’s completion, the man brushed a strand or two of grayed hair from his face and overlooked the silent crowd, smiling. Provoked by their unusual quietness, he took the time to speak again. “Not much, I warrant, but t’will serve. If my old head can remember more, I won’t hesitate to go on, but I would have no reason if you’ve tired of these themed verses. Love is something I’ve reflected on, but I shan’t bore you with my ponderings, oh no, we should be merrier this day and eve. Though love is merry, merry is not love, unless the love of food and drink and song and dance. Then you have me, I suppose, and love is as merry as merry e’er was. But, I pray you, let me not rant on like the ancient fool I am.”