The Results of Looking into Fae Culture

Good afternoon,

I had had several requests to share the poems or perhaps they are songs that Lady Annaliese and I unearthed between Fall and Winter Festivals. Therefore, please find the poems below. I would be most happy to discuss them with anyone who wishes it. Naturally, myself and Annaliese are very happy to discuss the Fae, as well as anyone who wishes to assist in the ongoing research into the Fae Language is quite welcome.

Please see below for the texts we uncovered.

Countess Rukiye Maryam no Kershawi Teuthida Alizé min bayt Amira

The Flower

Flowers dance a-round and round, laughing as they go
They call upon the warm spring wind, tossing to and fro
The creatures of the land did start to join the revelry
But when their bodies swept away, the flowers care not see.
Dancing fevered ever on, the flowers stamp the ground
They tear apart the beds in which our humble homes are found
And though the creatures beg and plead for respite and reprieve
The knowing of their mayhem only brings the flowers glee.

The Flame

Fires burning ever hot, consuming all it touches
Passion, anger, hatred wrought, crumbling to ashes
Pressing forward farther still, war amongst all being
Clashing, slashing, fighting will, looking but not seeing.
Devastation in its wake, charr-ed, scarr-ed ruin,
Clearing room for things to grow, beginning it again.

The Crone

I went into the forest for a walk among the leaves
I came upon a wellspring with a surface slick as ice
I saw reflected back umong the dark and bitter trees
A weathered face who smiled at me and promised paradise.
The image ever-shifted, but my will did remain strong
I drank a cup of water, and I felt myself did change.
And though the world does rot around me, bringing death along,
The physical is meaningless, for now I am arcane.

The Raven

A raven casts her eye among the rotting and the dead.
She waits with calculated patience for a chance to soar.
She plucks up pebbles one by one and drops them in a pail.
The water drops upon the ground with each successive stone.
The worker find he cannot fill his cup after an hour.
To the well, the man returns, to fill the pail again.
The raven has her chance to fly, and seize upon her prize,
She holds between her talons sharp a single human eye.


Since you were kind enough to share these poems, I will share a short story that I have encountered in my research.


“Yanni and the Changeling”, from a book of folk tales claiming to date from the 1st century A.S.

Come close, my child, for the night of the new year is upon us. Draw the curtains and gather by my fire, and pay no heed to the creatures of the night howling outside. On this night, the seasons rule not over the lands, nor even upon the Aether itself - all is unbound in the darkness, to be remade anew in the dawn. I shall tell you the tale of a traveler on a night very like this one, and the danger of trusting the goodwill of strangers.

Once upon a time, there was a young man named Yanni. His eyes were the color of bluebeards and his hair flowed long and dark like a deep river. He lived partway up the mountain away from the village where he was raised, for he was a goat-herd and the mountain was where one traditionally went to raise goats. But he returned to his family’s home on important days, and the eve of the new year was approaching.

Yanni planned to herd his goats back to their barn in the afternoon, so he would have plenty of time to walk down the mountain and join his family before night fell. But the goats, being contrary sorts of creatures, would have none of that. When he zigged, they zagged. When he tried to coax them with carrots, they only laughed - in that way that goats have of bleating in a dismissive sort of manner. By the time he finally managed to shut them in for the evening, the sun was already beginning to set.

Now, Yanni was a smart lad. He’d heard the old stories about all of the terrible things that happen to those who stay out past nightfall on the new year. But he knew those were only old stories - nobody really believed them, right? Besides, his family would worry far more if he simply didn’t show up, than if he showed up a bit late. It wouldn’t do to worry them so on a holiday. He set off down the mountain at a quick pace, hoping to make it to the village before supper was completely finished.

As Yanni should have remembered, running down a mountain is a tricky proposition even in the best of conditions. For someone worried about being late, already tired from chasing goats all afternoon, in gathering darkness and wearing the sort of clothes fit for a festival? Things become very treacherous indeed. He barely made it to the first switchback before he stubbed a toe on an errant root and went tumbling head over heels. And because he was on a mountain, he kept tumbling. And twirling. And tossing and traveling, too. To make a long story short - he fell.

When he finally came to a stop and his head had cleared of dizziness, dusk had well and truly set in and Yanni realized he was lost. Nothing looked familiar - did the mountain even HAVE a stream running down it? - and an evening chill was beginning to set in. Yanni shivered, stood up, and began to search for signs of a path.

Eventually, he found something better - a bright, warm square of light peeking out from behind a tree. As he approached, the shape of a small, cozy-looking cabin took form amidst the increasingly-menacing woodlands. Yanni walked up to the door, and just as he was raising his hand to knock, it swung open. A jolly, older-looking gentleman stood inside. “Yanni!” he said, throwing his arms open, “So glad you could make it! Come in, come in!”

Yanni followed the old man into the cabin, removing his boots and placing his coat on a hook by the door. “Come along, come along, it’s almost time for supper!” The old man drew up a chair at the little dining table and motioned for Yanni to sit. As he did, Yanni thought he noticed something strange in the old man’s eyes - just a flash, but gone before he could figure out what he was seeing.

The man pulled a steaming kettle off the fireplace and poured a mug of tea. He handed it to Yanni. “Drink, drink, you must be frozen to the core!” As he said it, Yanni realized just how cold he was - his teeth chattering, his fingers almost turning blue. He looked up - that flash of something in the old man’s eyes again. He held the mug in his freezing hands and downed the drink in a single gulp. Then he had a thought - “How did you-”

“Know your name?” The old man chuckled. “Why, that hardly matters. Finish your tea, your throat must be parched from such exertion.” Yanni blinked, and realized it was true. The mug was full and he was desperately thirsty. He tipped the mug to drink and—nothing. It was empty. “What did you—”

“Do with the tea? Never you mind, it’s nearly time for dinner. With a day like you’ve had, you must be starving.” And Yanni realized it was true. His stomach twisted painfully and he groaned. The old man’s eyes flashed again, this time for longer - Yanni looked into them and felt a snowstorm, brilliant and white and freezing cold. “Who—who are you?” he choked, between chattering teeth.

“Yanni, the season may be on the verge of changing, but Winter’s grip has not yet faded from these lands. With your acceptance of the gifts and hospitality of this house, you have chosen your fate. Now come. There is much to be done.” With a gesture, the old man swept open the door and Yanni felt himself standing, walking out into the snowstorm (had it been storming before?) as though in a dream. He tried to look back at the old man’s face, tried to ask “how” or “what” or “who”, but, like a puppet, he felt himself continuing to march into the snow.


Is that where the tale ends?

I know that there are stories about New Years, but I don’t know any so dark.

So if I’m reading that right:

Spring will trample you without caring because it’s having too much fun

Summer will destroy you with a vengeance because it’s all about anger.

Autumn will wriggle in and mess with your priorities til you see things its way

Winter will use your needs against you to get what it really wants.

That last bit tracks with Pleasant’s story, too.


Honestly if staff just wants to write us dark fairy tales for all of our BGS results, I wouldn’t complain. These are so good.

1 Like

I agree, the poems—and Pleasant’s story—seem very much like parables in nature.

One has to wonder if these poems were written as warnings, and why the author(s) felt they needed to be so vague if so.

Do we have dates for any of the poems?

Pleasant, thank you for sharing this. If I may ask, what was your topic of research when you found this story?

Based on our research, we think they are quite old but we have no confirmation regarding their date.

My research criteria was the following:

I would like to dedicate time to searching for any books, poems, short stories, colloquial phrases, limericks, farmer’s almanacs, songs, ledgers, ship/dock manifests, etc… that may be held in the library (or order books from other libraries), for anything that uses the following key word:


Mine claims to be from the 1st century A.S. but I have no real confirmation of a publication date.


1 Like

Dear Pleasant,

Thank you for providing further information as to your mode of inquiry.


Rukiye Maryam