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The Mythology of Beardsgaard ~ II ~ The Dawn Of Trade ~ .i


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≈ II ≈

i. The Dawn Of Trade

Angolon’s was pleased with the name of the realm, for as a man of great beard, dwelling in a place called Beardsgaard was proper. His fingers moved to scratch his chin in the manner all content men of beard do. And then his fingers became stuck.

With aid of his pipe stem he worked to loose his hand, and after a time was able to free himself. But this was troublesome. A man of learning has no time for such entanglements, he thought. But he was also a man of many vials, with samples of plants and rock and earth, bits and bobs, substances from all over the lands. And the lands provide.

So he read the words of the illustrated tomes he himself had written, and he searched the clear and amber and opalescent glass vials he had forged until he came upon something intriguing. Inside the vial rested mounds of soft, parchment colored butter, much like the creamy whipped clouds of milk he enjoyed on bread from his ovens, but it did not taste of such.

On its label, affixed to the glass with a light coat of sap was penned, Mountain Butter. He remembered a time long ago, deep beneath the cavernous underground kingdom of the dwarves where he had come upon it and filled his vial, but had not thought upon it for many ages. With curiosity, he dipped a finger into the vial and scooped our a small pillow of gold.

After mere moments in his hand, the cloud melted, and his face along with it. Discouraged, he searched for a cloth on which to wipe his hands, but found none. But his beard was there, that would make a fine substitute, as it always caught spilt ale rather well.

But as Angolon ran his oily hands over his beard, everything changed and he knew - he must go to the mountains again.

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