| Subject: a rather strange language |
Author:
ryna
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Date Posted: 20:27:04 06/19/02 Wed
“Fie!” it cried in a gurgly piping voice. “As merrie as a malted mouse this knave doth be . . . nay, as a boiled owl!”
Ryna stared at the bird in delight. Should she be surprised to hear a raven talk or is it to be expected in the palace grounds? She always knew palaces had much better things, but this?
“He that eateth the king’s goose doth void fethers a hundred years after,” the raven rambled, lurching and teetering precariously. “I doth thank heaven thy father wert borne afore ye – most generous of esquires. How goeth the day?”
Ryna crouched down and brought her face close to the birds. “I’m fine, yet I am no male,” she said, “but are you all right? My name’s Ryna. Can you remember yours? You don’t seem very sure of anything.”
“A malmsey dowsing of the noddle-tree, oh courteous gallant,” the raven replied, shaking its head and hitting it with its wing. “The even that brimmeth over doth make for a cloudy morn. No recollection have I of whom or whence – nor know aught save the briny tang in mine gullet and the hammers in mine pate.” Ryna’s head was spinning with the effort of understanding her raven. “Dost the new day remember the old? In mine brains there is naught to gleam, wretch’s mind are robbed and squandered, the casket of the skull is bereft and full of lack. No ember can tutor me in name or descent, yet I am sensible of a darkness behind me, though I know it not, nor from whence it stems. Alack and alas for I.”
Ryna smiled reassuringly. “Well, you don’t seem like a villain to me,” she said. “But I’ll have to call you something.”
“Wilt thou not appoint unto me a name of thine own choosing?” the raven begged.
Feeling sorry for the poor creature, Ryna considered his plea for a little while then grinned. “I know, I’ll call you . . . Quoth.”
The raven cocked its head to one side and muttered the word under its breath before ruffling its frayed feathers and bowing low until its beak tapped upon the ground.
“Verily and amen to that,” he cried gladly. “Henceforth the tale of Quoth shalt begin, aught that he wast can moulder and remain forgot ever more.”
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