Many are the months since I last took up the pen, and longer still since I wandered the halls of this shire, much to my dismay. Worry not, good folk- I hath not forsaken thee, nor shall I e'er do as such. Yet the labours of a squire have no end, and the Higher Schoole doth occupy most of my time.

Another year, another faire come and gone- 'twas a glorious occasion. A celebration of all that is lost and wonderous and sad, a bachannal revel, a world, far more "real" than anything else- aye, faire was all of these. My labours as a squire continued as I served His Grace, the Lord Peck of Abercrombie. Likewise, I served as both court poet and troubador-in-training and Master of Squires. Such titles, though honors they be, were paid for in full in sweat. My learnings under him I shall post anon, for such material could fill volumes. I recieved, with much suprise on mine behalf, the award for Best In Mayor's Court and one of the Best of AZ awards.... and I am allowing myself some pride on these matters. Too much virtue can be a vice, is it not so? And none have yet accused me of being too virtuous.

This year mark'd also the beginning of my newfound quest for the love of the lady whom I fancy. The lass to whom I be betroth'd- aye, the account of out meeting at court and my description of her could likewise fill volumes. Suffice to say, she is beautiful both in face, form, and spirit. Such qualities be rare indeed, and mark me well- for I hath a very discerning taste. To look into milady's eyes; this be mine only paradise.

Sir William, captain of His Majesty's guard, did observe me upon the lanes and in the court of my master and put forth a request that I should join him as a knight in the service of the king. My master accepted! So it is that a dream, once-distant, looms ahead. I am to finish my service and be knighted in a year's time. Then I shall take the oarth, the spurs, the chain- I tremble with anticipation and apprehension at the very thought!

God's blood, but fortune's wheel doth turn, and Lady Luck, fickle mistress that she be, smileth upon me. In a year's time, I am to be both wedded and knighted, two glorious honors, two lifelong quests, two grievous responsibilities. Yet such is the nature of adulthood, methinks.

And I am boy no longer. Sweet-bittersweet be my lot.

Your Servant,

Squire Reynald of York

Though squire I may be, human am I all the more. And further curs'd am I- for when I feel down I can do naught but write bad poems about it. What I hath written is writ to easy my weary mind, and maketh little sense as of yet.

Such is the path of life;

Plagued with poor metaphors,

Ill-feelings and strife.

And yet we wend our weary way,

Though our feet are tired,

Little progress, day by day.

Such is the cruel path we stride;

That we would tear ourselves apart,

Had we not one with which to confide.

And so we seek our partners dear,

So we lure them, so we love them,

Knowing well that they’ll be near.

Why then, must I so helpless be?

So full besmitten by a lass,

Who in all ways exceeds me!

Still I pine, helpless, admiring,

Though she accept me politely,

Is she of my presence tiring?

So many would be far more fit for her!

Strong and able, intelligent and poetic,

Would these lads she prefer?

Why must I so cursed be?

For I will always be her thrall,

And know ill what she thinks of me.

(This poem was directly inspired by the writings of the Lady Redhawk, if ye must know.)

The wood with echoes doth abound,
Of the somber pipe, the sylvan sound,
The beat of the bodran, the shrill of the pipe,
The frenzied dance of the endless night.

Listen!

And far ahead, by yonder tree,
My lady fair doth wait for me.

And I shall take her by the hand,
And lead her to the wooded strand,
Where we shall tarry, her and I,
And gaze into the brilliant sky.

The night was for the dreamer made,
I walk in darkness, unafraid,
For though an idle dream may never come to pass,
I savor it while youth’s fond whims may last.

My old heart is heavy, my worn back is bent.

My steel lance is snapped, my coin all is spent-

My name long forgotten, my helm left to rust-

I once sought the grail, and found naught but dust.

‘Twas long ago when I embarked on my quest,

I journeyed far o’er the seas to the west,

My shield of burnished steel shone bright,

With red cross emblazoned, a glorious sight.

For years I have fought and struggled in vain,

Cross alien lands, battered by wind and rain,

And yet I return home to my meager plot,

My years spent a-questing are now all for naught.

Yet still I ride onwards, my wounds will soon mend,

Though no man can achieve what I still intend,

For I know if I keep to my god-given quest,

My heart will happy when I'm sent to rest.

Random scribbles like the one below tend to pop up on erratic bits of parchment, in which mine dwelling be buried.

Though there remains much to be done,

'ere the setting of the sun,

These things I'll finish, by-the-by,

to tarry now with Lady Shy.

And when through life I wend my way,

the hectic press, the milling fray,

one sweet certainty that I myself remind,

I hold a lady's favor, and she bears mine.