sewing her clover

There once was a goddess, the Maiden of Spring, who did a most curious and mischievous thing – she holed herself up in a dank sodden cave enraptured by a handsome, dastardly knave. He'd spied her when life was beginning to teem, out walking in snowbanks from which budded green, and trapped her with cunning and love's sweet promise without even gracing her lips with a kiss. Forthwith to his light-starved and troglodyte lair is where he then took her, the Maiden so fair, and fed her with roots that grew deep down below until field and mountain was covered in snow. Our heroine then yearned to make her escape, to see the broad sunlit vast upper landscapes; she slipped from the grasps of her erstwhile lover to walk in the snowy fields sewing clover. As soon as the hot sun and warm winds did blow she longed her dark paramour once more to know and crept without making e'en one undue sound back down to his hidey-hole far underground. It's there that she winters and shelters from Fall until she is tugged pulled compelled dragged and called once more to the surface her deeds there to do, to make life erupt again, verdant and new.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

through selfless devotion

The girl caught a fever while tending to sheep and falling high up in the meadows asleep. Through selfless devotion to each in her flock she'd built up a vast and deep love-karma stock so much so her actions the Goddess did please who saved her from death during a sudden freeze. The maiden awoke to spy frost on the ground where hours before only flowers she'd found and straddled above her with short-sword unsheathed was vast Nuuzstathena stood there on the heath. A wolf was approaching, his nose in the dirt, he looked up and glanced at the bight flashing skirt that girdled the loins of our Patroness fair whose green eyes were flashing amidst her dark hair. The beast turned and vanished with palpable hurry, his footfalls churned frozen mud into a slurry, the flock then came shivering back to her side as Nuuzstathena for the young girl cried. The tears of the Goddess rained down from on high – 'twas nary a thundercloud seen in the sky – they landed and mingled in eye, mouth, and nose of that blessed child who lay there and froze. The magical fluid soon entered her system and filled her with fortitude, honor, and wisdom, while deep in her body the blood it did boil with such intense heat that it softened hard soil. Now during this time of great bodily danger the maiden thought mostly of getting to manger the weakest and lowliest sheep in her care, about her own peril was barely aware. To teach her the Goddess then filled her with visions of methods for healing deep social divisions, for bringing together such humans as might prefer to be angry and constantly fight. Her missions accomplished the Goddess then sped and left Erya Rovend asleep on a bed of bright and green heather in a sea of frost, the young girl who'd gained much at so little cost. To see her just stop by New York's own U.N., where she stands to battle tyrannical men, and fills our Grigovian hearts with such pride, young Erya upon whom the Goddess once cried.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Zampyut the Sad

The young wife of King Zampyut the Wise had died during childbirth, and he was lonely. His other, grown children were off at different royal courts conducting business and forming alliances; his subjects were happy, housed, and well-provisioned; and the courtier who had been his most outspoken critic had been mistaken for a stag recently, and shot. Not only was the king lonely, he was also bored. His foul mood lifted and great joy flooded his heart upon hearing that a maiden had been spotted in the far reaches of the realm whose beauty outshone that of all others. “Bring her to me,” the king commanded to Thoraei, head of his security detail. “But be gentle, lest her fairness be ruined.” At once the man set to his given task, riding out forthwith and questioning many peasants as to the whereabouts of the mysterious maiden.

Having tracked her down in a hamlet nestled in the dizzying heights of the towering Yiptlong massif, Thoraei had her placed in a carriage and escorted back to the gilded halls of his king. “To where are you taking me?” the maiden asked, to no avail; awed by her radiant loveliness, the men of her escort were unable to look at her, let alone respond. ”The rumors were true,” King Zampyut said with tears running down his cheeks as he greeted the maiden at the outer boundary marker of his capital city. “Please, child, tell me your name.” “Vrida,” the maiden said, her dark hair and fair skin glowing in the light of the setting sun. Without another word, the king dismounted, helped Vrida from her carriage, and asked for her hand in marriage, right there in the dusty road. A wedding! What joy, the commoners said, what good fortune that our king has found a new queen so quickly.

Vrida, however, who had grown up chasing horses and eating wild onions in lush high valleys, began to curse her lot. 'Here I sit,' she thought, 'trapped in a stone tower in a strange city being dressed and poked at by foolish and soft-handed women, and all I want to do is run once more with my ponies.' “What do you desire, my Queen-soon-to-be?” said Zampyut upon composing himself after having seen her the next morning. “I wish only to go home, my King, and live the life of any other high-valley maiden; I miss my horses.” “I shall have your horses brought here. Would that make you smile?” “Please do not, my King – it would kill them to leave their home, just as it is killing me.” At this the King rose up angrily, making many threats and even kicking at a young errand boy who strayed within his reach. “Now that your sadness is known to me, it tarnishes my image of your beauty. As your King, I command you to be happy.” “Please, oh wise sovereign, let me leave again, and return to my family,” Vrida said. “No,” the reply; “you are mine, and shall stay mine.” That night, with a last long look at the cluster of stars to which she as a child would tell her darkest secrets, the beautiful maiden flung herself from her tower window onto the rocks below. Not only was the King lonely once more, his desolation was now saturated with sadness.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥