It was a chilly Wednesday twilight in the town of Merigold long, long ago, in which our author was born and collected the manuscripts for the tale that follows, when a princess sang beneath the moon. Her dance was a flail as if tied to the strings of a nameless god.
And on the other side of the hill lay none other than the Raven-hall of Caer Parvalend. Within the hig-bricked tower there sat the Raven Queen named Saija, much–bedecked with pearls and jewels. And from her tower she heard her daughter, whose name was Lydia, her ululations echoing across the field.
The Elf of Huntendroc, nobly born,
That came upon carrack,
To Vane he went, with ill intent,
By name of Berilac.
And upon the utterance of that name the Raven Queen shivered and to herself spoke, “This will not do. This will not do. Where has she been, that she may find such songs riddled with such names?”So saying, the Raven Queen threw her morph-cloak about her shoulders–the scrap of magic’d cloth was dark enough so as to look most like the night sky itself had gone shimmering about her shoulders, and as it settled she sank into it, the cloak turning to feathers, and she flew out the window in raven form, crossing the field to where her daughter danced.
She perched atop a great oak tree and thus spoke, “Lydia, I must have words.”