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I went walking one day to the market, With money enough for a treat (to eat). I had just bought a basket of pastries When commotion arose in the street. A man stood out front of the baker’s, A bright gilded cage by his side (with pride). I joined the crowd crowding around him As to everyone gathered he cried: The delegation from the North had brought wedding gifts with them, to acknowledge the honour it was for the king to have chosen himself a For the queen mother, goblets of moulded glas*, their stems glittering red like rubies. “For your hospitality in welcoming our sister into your family,” they said. “You show us a great honour.” The queen mother accepted the gift with a gracious nod, but her smile was thin and her gaze as sharp as broken ice. For the new queen, a cloak of de*p red velvet, the hem embroidered with sw*llows’ wings in golden thread. “Like the sw*llow, may you make the South your home,” they told her, “though its summer be regrettably brief.” The new queen pulled the cloak gratefully around her shoulders and laughed. One of my joys is language, whether using existing ones or constructing new ones for my fantasy worlds. This post is an example of the latter. I’ve taken a song I love and translated it into Gældorean, the language I’ve been working on recently. It takes with teeth but does not eat And covets neither bread nor meat But mounted like a trophy’s horns, What once it bit, it now adorns. The chill of a swiftly-approaching winter had filled the tavern to near bursting. Gusts of icy wind snapped at the patrons’ heels as they ducked beneath the lintel and hurried to the hearth, shaking aside heavy folds of damp cloak and warming stiff fingers by the flames. Others had found a seat at one of the many tables and warmed their insides with a feyworth of the innkeeper’s stew. Beef it was today, with a hearty mix of bloodroot, carrots and potatoes. Athrëd ladled it out generously at the counter while her