At Margaux’s Farm
The flat, grey landscape of the barrowlands, gives way to rolling pastures of early corn and golden wheat. The party had arrived at the edges of a vast estate: Margaux’s Farm. They passed small cottages, dotted between the fields, surely the homes of tenant farmers. Though the animals and people they saw seemed healthy and well-tended, on close inspection they noticed that the drought was starting to take a toll. The fields of barley had an unhealthy yellow wilt to them.
At the heart of this grand farmland was a whitewashed two-storey stone cottage, covered all over with rose bushes and flowering creepers. The roof had been newly thatched and the doorstep blackened. Across the way, the party saw a vast barn, made of well-dressed timber, with subtle adornments that appear Elvish in fashion. This structure looked as though it had never sheltered animals, as it is immaculately clean. Festooned with winking candlelight, and boughs of greenery, feasting tables had been set. A small stage had been erected, presumably for Lapidarius Greylock’s performance.
It seemed a great banquet was in the offing. The guests milled about, composed of tenant farmers and Margaux’s neighbours. The party recognised some familiar faces: Lapidarius, Robard ‘the Canny’ Blandish, and Mrs Patlin - the ill-favoured farmer who had accused them of cattle rustling.
The party chatted to their friends, who were delighted to see them. They fulfilled their bargain with Lapidarius, and recounted their adventure in Xalik’s barrow. He urged them to perform this tale for the assembled guests.
A small bell was rung and people began to take their seats. Long platters start to emerge, festooned with whole roasted suckling pigs; soft, sweet cornbread, and mountains of roast taters. At the head of the table, the friends saw a serenely beautiful woman, clad in a simple, loose, undyed, linen dress, which crossed over her body and collected in pleated folds. This was surely the lady of the manor: Igraine Margaux. Her lustrous brown hair was adorned with pink and yellow roses and she wore no jewellery, except for a plain gold band on one hand.
Igraine rose to speak. ‘Welcome, my friends and neighbours. It is a delight to have old acquaintances and new gathered here today,’ she said as she smiled at the party.
‘For those of you who don’t know me,’ the crowd laughed with genuine amusement, ‘my name is Igraine Margaux. I wanted to give thanks, to all you for your hard work, and for your neighbourly support. This feast is my gift to you. Eat and by merry.’
Lapidarius paused his songs and stories and invited the party to the stage. Together, each adding an element to the telling of the tale, the group astounded the diners, and received a round of rapturous applause. As Lapidarius led a chorus of cheers for the intrepid friends, he asked what they call themselves and, struck by sudden inspiration, they came up with a name: The Lost and Foundlings.
After dining lavishly, the friends settled back into warm, well-earned comfort, enjoying Igraine Margaux’s hospitality. Their hostess rose to give another toast:
‘This looks to be a hard summer, and this drought shows no sign of ending. Something, it seems, is stirring in the land, we can sense it in the waters and feel it on the wind. I fear a growing malice,’ Igraine spoke solemnly.
‘We are beset by curses - there was horror at Wicklow Mill, and Mrs Patlin here is nigh besieged by wicked, violent attacks. We have all heard strange snatches of odd melodies on the breeze and many of us know someone who has gone missing,’ she continued.
‘In this house, we keep to the old ways and honour the widows. We ask that they keep us safe, and if anything we have done has angered them, we beg for their forgiveness,’ with this, she raised her cup and the crowd joined her in what seemed to be a familiar recitation:
‘To the Widow of the Waters
To the Widow of the Wilds
To the Widow of the Winds
And to the Widow of the Waning Moon
Keep us in our hour of need.’
This grave moment was interrupted by one of the guests, a man whose loose strands of combed-over hair did little to disguise his bright red scalp and weatherbeaten face. He was garbed in an absurdly gaudy outfit, with pleated silk doublet, hung with small pearls, and billowing, purple velvet trousers. He rose, cutting off Igraine before she could say any more.
‘My lady, you need not want for shelter nor protection. I have bought a gift for you, Lady Margaux,’ at which he snapped his fingers and two Goliath farmhands trundled forward, towing a barrow of bright red, glossy apples.
‘It has been another fine season at Bibbleman Orchards, and I am pleased to share my bounty with you all,’ he said, as he plucked up an apple and knelt at Igraine’s feet, proffering it up.
‘The apple is ripe and has a rosy glow,
In your verdant meadow,
Its seeds I would sow,
If you’ll deign to regard me, a worthy fellow
A garden of bright flowers, together we’ll grow.’
A mortifying silence descended over the assembled party-goers as Mr Bibbleman made his proposal. Igraine Margaux did not, however, allow her composure to slip, ‘Mr Bibbleman, John, thank you for your kind and generous offer. I am flattered. What lady wouldn’t be? But I am afraid that my heart belongs to another, and I fear that I am not so inconstant as to abandoned my love.’
‘But Igraine!…’ Bibbleman interjected.
‘No John, rejoin the party, I am sure that there is some young maid here that would make a fine wife for you. It is not, however, to be me.’ There was steel in Igraine’s voice, but no trace of cruelty.
As the banquet broke up, the tables were cleared and set aside to make a great dance floor. Igraine Margaux came to introduce herself to the Lost and Foundlings. Almost immediately, she recognised that something was amiss with each of the party.
‘What has happened to each of you? You each look like a shirt that has lost a button; or a dropped stitch in the weave?’ She enquired with care, but was almost immediately distracted by Burley’s new weapon: Chainbreaker.
She enquired as to where he had obtained it, and was struck to hear that it had been unearthed from Xalik’s tomb, and that it had belonged to the Dwarven prince, Daven Ironhand.
She invited the party to rest for the night in the barn’s hayloft with the bard, Lapidarius. Robard Blandish retreated to his caravan, and the various party-goers trundled off into the night, or bunked up in the back of carts, with blankets and pillows bought for that purpose.
In the night, Ilyad had a curious dream. She was overcome with the sense of moving at speed through a dense wood, greenery flashing past her. Her heart beat faster, as though she were pursuing something. But then, the tiniest mote of doubt crept in, and she asked herself: ‘what if I am not the hunter, but the prey?’ With that her heart started to race, and the feeling of being pursued, of being small and vulnerable, overtook her. It felt alien, hateful, and terrifying and with that she woke.
Burley also stirred in the night. He heard faint strains of music coming up from the floor of the barn. Creeping from his bed, Burley peeped down and saw Lapidarius gently strumming his lute. His eyes were closed, but he was smiling softly. In the moonlight, at the centre of the barn, Igraine Margaux wheeled in a waltz, her arms held out as though clasping a phantom partner.
She stopped suddenly, and looked up at Burley. Faintly, in a shaft of moonlight next to her, Burley thought he could see the figure of a man, though it was just like the way in which dust becomes visible moving in a shaft of sunlight. Igraine beckoned the young Goliath down.
As though in a dream, Burley heard a voice and saw standing at his elbow the phantom of a dwarven prince. With noble bearing, the ghost spoke, ‘Young warrior, my name is Daven Ironhand, and you weird my hammer. I am honoured to see it used so, after centuries in that foul fiend’s tomb. Such a weapon should not moulder beneath the earth. Use it to protect your friends.’
‘But I have a boon to beg of you, Burley,’ the ghost said haltingly, ‘I love the lady Igraine, and she I. While we have spent many years communing by moonlight, I have not the corporal substance to offer her a kiss. Would you lend me your lips Burley, that I may share a moment with my love?’
The Goliath agreed, and felt his consciousness drift away, as though in a waking sleep.