With some creative liberties, this is written to be a fable among NPCs in Gallovia, in locations once traveled by the late-Katriane and Osric Howlester. It's a story in a poetry motif, with some exaggerations as word-of-mouth travels between people about Osric and the "spirit" he carries with him. It can be labeled a bit "AU" given Osric probably did some things a lot differently. This is written for @MonMarty and his character, Osric, who I adore very much. Thank you for always inspiring me.
A mongering whisper runs the town,
a rumor, a children's tale turned dark
of a man-made-beast, and a dame forever lost
or so the Iron Castle thought.
Travelers ask every which way, "What could possibly be true?
Is this not some fiendish bard-song to cast us away?"
Yet even the tradesmen know that this story is more than a fable.
Every sighting, every spotting of this man-made-beast, is all true.
A roaming shadow with permanent snow dotting his mane travels the woods
and the groves, the underbrush and past the thickets, on a trail
all his own, as many think.
But loyal denizens of the Iron Castle spin a different web:
a tale of their late-mistress in her final days amidst the highland storms
that plagued their fields.
"Indeed, the time must have come
for the mistress' life to be done.
Disease stole her from life--
from wealth, from luxury,
from three children
and her seat as a wife.
Indeed, how terrible it is;
behold the grave of more than a woman:
A wife, a duchess, a mother!
"The grave gathered moss, ice, and snow
just like the marks of her motherland
and strangely did our haunting beast--
a memory of our old Coen--
guard her keep as though his own.
"Days and nights went by, and his post he kept there
weathering all one imagines, and alone were his to bear.
Some took his guarding as an act of mal-intention
but anyone who knows that man within the beast
remembers his devotion to the late-duchess;
for her heart was as kind for as long as it beat
and she sought goodness for people and hamlet with no question.
"Gardeners once claimed her presence could be felt on that hill where
her stone lies today... but, as the snow's again passed
the Visitor of her grave stole her away, so they say,
protecting her frail spirit for ever more."
Indeed, so the story goes;
Her body lies at rest in his antlers which hold her as a blade of grass
steadies a butterfly;
a man who cushions a spirit frail as porcelain; such an unusual sighting.
Villages proclaim he speaks not to the living but merely the dead,
and behold, in his eyes at times resides another:
a woman--a wife, a duchess, a mother.
Wherever the snow-touched beast goes he carries the dead
on his shoulders.
In great sorrow, her mourning calls through the trees,
wondering where her sons and daughter may be,
and in their search the beast marches a-head.
None shall stop him from his trek; it never ends.
For no man, woman, or living soul. It is said
the dead follows his wake and shelters him.
Bound together, the Beast and the Duchess go,
protecting our young and killing the evil and bold.
The Iron Castle may cage her tomb forever.
Stories of her death plague its halls forever.
Yet it is only on the snowy back of the Urlan Keeper that her soul belongs.
She whispers in his ear,
he heeds her words even in death,
and casts his steel where their vengeance is declared.
What evils draw out this macabre creature from the mountain peaks?
No one is truly sure.
All travelers are told the same;
'Remember the eyes of the dead roam far and their living roam farther.
Silver-teeth bear death's blade;
and her hands shall guide his path, shield
what must be unmade and unseen.'
A HIGHLAND TALE
A mongering whisper runs the town,
a rumor, a children's tale turned dark
of a man-made-beast, and a dame forever lost
or so the Iron Castle thought.
Travelers ask every which way, "What could possibly be true?
Is this not some fiendish bard-song to cast us away?"
Yet even the tradesmen know that this story is more than a fable.
Every sighting, every spotting of this man-made-beast, is all true.
A roaming shadow with permanent snow dotting his mane travels the woods
and the groves, the underbrush and past the thickets, on a trail
all his own, as many think.
But loyal denizens of the Iron Castle spin a different web:
a tale of their late-mistress in her final days amidst the highland storms
that plagued their fields.
"Indeed, the time must have come
for the mistress' life to be done.
Disease stole her from life--
from wealth, from luxury,
from three children
and her seat as a wife.
Indeed, how terrible it is;
behold the grave of more than a woman:
A wife, a duchess, a mother!
"The grave gathered moss, ice, and snow
just like the marks of her motherland
and strangely did our haunting beast--
a memory of our old Coen--
guard her keep as though his own.
"Days and nights went by, and his post he kept there
weathering all one imagines, and alone were his to bear.
Some took his guarding as an act of mal-intention
but anyone who knows that man within the beast
remembers his devotion to the late-duchess;
for her heart was as kind for as long as it beat
and she sought goodness for people and hamlet with no question.
"Gardeners once claimed her presence could be felt on that hill where
her stone lies today... but, as the snow's again passed
the Visitor of her grave stole her away, so they say,
protecting her frail spirit for ever more."
Indeed, so the story goes;
Her body lies at rest in his antlers which hold her as a blade of grass
steadies a butterfly;
a man who cushions a spirit frail as porcelain; such an unusual sighting.
Villages proclaim he speaks not to the living but merely the dead,
and behold, in his eyes at times resides another:
a woman--a wife, a duchess, a mother.
Wherever the snow-touched beast goes he carries the dead
on his shoulders.
In great sorrow, her mourning calls through the trees,
wondering where her sons and daughter may be,
and in their search the beast marches a-head.
None shall stop him from his trek; it never ends.
For no man, woman, or living soul. It is said
the dead follows his wake and shelters him.
Bound together, the Beast and the Duchess go,
protecting our young and killing the evil and bold.
The Iron Castle may cage her tomb forever.
Stories of her death plague its halls forever.
Yet it is only on the snowy back of the Urlan Keeper that her soul belongs.
She whispers in his ear,
he heeds her words even in death,
and casts his steel where their vengeance is declared.
What evils draw out this macabre creature from the mountain peaks?
No one is truly sure.
All travelers are told the same;
'Remember the eyes of the dead roam far and their living roam farther.
Silver-teeth bear death's blade;
and her hands shall guide his path, shield
what must be unmade and unseen.'
