The Emerald Collection of Story and Song

The Emerald Collection of Story and Song is a collection of two known volumes. They were compiled by Aemyn Verde during The Fringe when he was a member of The Emerald Company. The Emerald Company was a small acting company which began in the early end of Anthos and went on until the end of The Fringe. It is unknown of the status of the members after the move to Thales. All but one of these works are written by Aemyn Verde, with the exception of An Account of the Great Battle of the End of Anthos, which was originally written by Merit Pascal of the Order of the Golden Lance.

Volume One

An Account of the Great Battle of the End of Anthos

"The waves rushed over the burned and cracked lands as many warriors of all kin held the gates between Anthos and the Fringe from the Scourge, the Golden Lance at their side. The fight lasted many days as the lands flooded! Brave men fell to the evil trickery of the Scourge; Scourge were slain by steel and lance alike. But soon a massive tidal wave - be it from the scourge's magic or a natural disaster, swept through the land! It crashed down upon the battlefield as the warriors fled back to the doors that sealed the Fringe and Anthos, making a final stand against the Scourge before the large doors were finally closed, sealing us off from our old home. That's when the battle ended."

Ballad: An End of Gold and Water

Listen close, my friends; hark ye

How fair Anthos fell to the sea;

How our home of but fifty years

Did send us forth with naught but tears.

The realms of man, of elf, and dwarf;

Of kha, the halflings, and of orcs,

Had emptied all into the Fringe,

Searching for new lives within,

But left behind the roots they'd planted;

And took fair Anthos' peace for granted.

With such a vulnerable state exposed,

The Scourge did swoop upon their foes,

Their shadow spread 'cross the people's laaands,

Until, at Cloud Temple, a battle was to be haaad.

The free folk braced themselves; side by side

They faced the threat of their demise!

The good folk of Anthos did not stand alone,

For aiding them in defense of their precious home,

Stood the valiant, the honour-bound, the brave!

They stood their ground, knowing they stood upon their grave!

The Scourge-defying men of the Golden Lance

Did prepare to engage evil in most deadly dance!

And as the Scourge descended, seeking souls to slay,

The sky let loose its own contribution into the fray.

The heavens barraged the forces with rain and sleet;

Blade, lance, and magic did in this downpour meet.

Brave men were slain; blood mixed with rain,

And, all the while, the gods slowly sunk the plain.

But 'slowly' is a term most misleading,

For soon the true victor would be appearing;

The wrath of nature, allegiance unknown,

Did rise from the sea, and was from there thrown

Upon the mainland; this wall of water swept through,

Belittling mountains, drowning all we knew.

And so, as the Golden Lance repelled the Scourge,

From the coast did sound the ominous dirge;

Ten-thousand waves crashed, bringing death and more,

But, swiftly, the descendants shut the door

Between Fringe and Home; left the tempest to break bone;

And, in that moment, Anthos ended with one mighty groan.

Then, silence; the people simply stood,

Gone, was their livelihood.

But, resolute in sacrifice that had been made,

They turned towards new life that, before them, did await.

Volume Two

Ballad: O! Sweet Maiden of Flotsam-Town!

There once danced a maiden sweet

From Flotsam-town on dainty feet

Far along the Anthos Highway,

Each graceful step did bring her my way.

It was such that I did glance

Upon the horizon 'cross which she pranced,

Her golden hair the wind caressed,

And tugged at woolen skirt, exposin'

Legs with which she'd been quite bless'd,

Nevertheless! T'was not her clothin'

That caught my eye,

'Twas the allure of her fair eyes!

Upon the lute I played for her;

She spun upon her feet - a blur!

And then, as the tune slowly faded,

She stopped, panting, in the mud.

'Twas then that fair complexion,

Shimmering, shaking, took on perfection.

The shell of that poor peasant lass,

Did break and fall like shatter'd glass;

And where she once wore woolen rags;

In silken white, held an Aengul's flag!

'pon golden wings she then ascended,

And there, she sang, her voice so splendid:

"My thanks for your song," she sighs,

"The tune so sweet it made me rise,

"Back t'wards the heavens gold!"

I sat there, shiv'ring in the cold,

And watched her fade right out of sight,

Once upon a lonely night...

Lord Extortion, or, The Flight of the Emerald Company

The situation had sprung up on a night as ordinary as any other; crowds began to flock as the Emerald Company primed for another night of music and merriment. Aemyn, backstage, plucked the strings of his lute, tuning its strings to perfection. Devon muttered something about how awfully large the crowd was, as Aregon stood upon the stage, calling passersby in to join the already-assembled audience. Laughter filled the crossroads between Vekaro and Kvaz as this Master of Ceremonies employed his stand-up charm.

This atmosphere of mirth swiftly dissipated as a grim-looking figure pushed through the suddenly silent onlookers. From behind his scraggly beard, his curled lips and cold eyes marked him as an oppressor of the poor in spirit; a noble seeking to extort those he deemed 'beneath him' , and, with their taxes, vassalage, and very lives, he sought to pad his stone-cold throne.

From between desiccated, lustful lips of Ivan Ruthern were spat the egregious words, inquiring,

"What are you doing on my land!?"

The members of the Company blinked, turning to each other in confusion. Of what did he speak? Surely we aren't on land that belongs to that horrid, towering keep? Perhaps we can, with amicable persuasion, turn his wrath away? This was Aemyn's mentality as he descended from the stage... He slapped a hand to the old codger's shoulder, proposing that they take this business elsewhere, that bureaucracy would not disturb their positive energy - their 'vibe'.

And so, in the frigid halls of the nest where crows do sleep, the selfish lord did regard, with contempt, the entertainers at his feet. They begged why, at all, there need be such rivalry; why not let them carry on?

"NO! The laws of feudalism do provide me with the cause to extort from you taxes, just like any other under my blessed 'protection'! If you wish to remain (living) on that knoll, you will give to me yearly... Three-hundred Minas - Nay! Five-hundred!"

By the end of his tirade, he had settled on three-thousand!

Aemyn looked to Aregon; unsure, at first, but swiftly resolution came to the pair. Aemyn cleared his throat, and defiantly stated that they would not bow to his unjust demands; they would move elsewhere!

"Hah! Very well, you poor fools, but hear this! If you have not rid me of you presence by midnight, you will find yourself just that - fools! My steward; go fetch the jesters hats; I sense they will soon have someone to entertain!"

The sinister, wrinkled lord cackled as his 'guests' stormed from his lair; but, underestimating the value of brave Aemyn's word, he began compiling a list of lullabies - songs that his mother used to sing to him 'til the very day she died. Not strange in itself, apart from the odd fact - that she had died just last week, at the criminal hands - or pants, rather, of her son - his noxious gas had killed her in her sleep!

But the valiant, determined men of the Emerald Company had no intention of staying under the oppression of that maniacal twit; they prepared, post-haste, to be, of him, rid. The wagon rumbled far away, behind the graveyard hill, where Aemyn had drunkenly piddled on King Heinrik's grave. The wagon wobbled as it passed the spot where Aemyn had then vomited on Lord Tuvya's chestplate. It was a long time before the wagon stopped in peaceful lands - at least a hundred metres away!

And so, now, the merry band, entertains beside the walls of grand Vekaro, and with the proud patronage of the great leader Tuvya, who does honour to the cause of song, story, and of mirth. Let his joyous name be extolled as we entertain upon his earth!

But cursed shall be the name of Ruthern - let it be trampled in the dirt!