Poet and Playwright Looking for Work

Greetings and salutations, ladies and gentlemen and other assorted gentlefolk of Travance!

It's been a while since I've seen this post here gilded with any sort of wordplay or assorted verbiage, so thus it is here I shall make this claim:
As most artists (and squires) are wont to be, I've found myself with less-than-ample coffers. Ergo, I will be taking on commissions to write poems for individuals in this town who are willing to pay for them, the length corresponding with the amount of coin paid.

I will make one caveat for those wishing to purchase my poetical persuasions, however. I do not wish to write poems extolling the virtues of people or chronicling events that happen within Travance - we already have people who both compose verse, both lyrical and prosaic, in bounty, and for those wishing to learn more of Travance in non-metrical composition, I will humbly direct them to the clergy of the Chronicler. I am far more intrigued with what people hold dear to them outside of our land.

Thus, I make this proposition. Give me a brief summary of a historical event, location, legend, or even children's story that you wish for me to do research for. I will then do according research on the matter and set it into verse, written in the King's Common. If the story you wish to be immortalized in poetry is of such importance that it offends you to be writ in the common script, I can just as easily scribe it in the language of your choosing. If you do not wish word to get out that a human wrote a story, prices for surreptitious publication can be arranged. If it offends you that a human will be smearing their grubby, ink-laden fingers all over your story, I can assist you by refraining from writing and smearing my ink-laden hands over other things.
On an unrelated note, I am particularly skilled at giving massages of the orbicularis oris, orbuclaris oculi, and their surrounding muscles, yet I reserve this service to those who take issue with my work.

Attached to this are a few copies of prior examples of my work, the tale of Gangladden. The original tale itself was a Dwarven children's tale told to me in my own youth put into verse, which I recited at the Winterdark Ball of 1214.


In addition to my services as a poet, I also offer my services as a playwright. Such will follow the above parameters as a guideline, unless you wish me to write about older Travancian history, by which I mean things that happened here more than twenty years ago. If you wish there to be an exception to the aforementioned guideline, send a message to me in private, and we can discuss matters. Preferably in person and over tea.

Naturally, I consider writing plays to be a much more serious and lengthier undertaking. The costs will be more, but as will be the time and work put into it. I will have to do more research in these particular matters, but I assure you, I will strive to achieve the greatest amount of verisimilitude within my works. Unless, of course, you're looking to produce a work of fiction, in which case my mind will exceed the boundaries of normal ingenuity and possible sanity (as it usually does) in order to create a work worthy of legend, even if it is fictional.
I will only work on one, maybe two plays at one time. They will be written on a case-by-case basis, and I am far more selective with what topics I will write about, Do not be offended if I decline to write about your subject, chances are I've done it for a few others, too.


I am looking forward to putting my pen to page again, particularly in purpose for people in patronage!

In Service and Song,
Sincerely,
Sindarion Aloysius Sinclair

The Tale of Gangladden

I'll tell you the tale of a treacherous tree, and the fearsome foe he fought!
For tales of troublesome trees, I feel, should never be forgot!

There once was a dwarf, a digger of mines, Gangladden was his name,
And his triumph o'er the terrible tree is the reason for his fame!

Gangladden was an honest man and humble in his toil,
but if you meddled in his work's way, his blood began to boil!

Which is why, you see, that he saw red when he opened up his door,
For roots entwined his pickaxe as they ruptured through the floor!

He tugged and tugged to no avail, it just would not come free,
"A pox, a plague, a poison!" he swore, "Curse that tangling tree!"

So he took his shovel in a furious rage and sharpened a single edge,
And he held his makeshift axe aloft to trim that heinous hedge!

He tunneled his way through gravel and earth until he encountered stone,
So he gave that rock a mighty punch with force to shatter bones!

Now if you think the bones that broke were his, oh, don't you fear,
For an angry dwarf can punch through steel when he hasn't had his beer!

When he broke through to the surface in a shroud of dust and dirt,
he hefted his axe - uh, shovel, I mean, and searched for plants to hurt!

And there it was! The treasonous tree! A-standing in its glade!
So Gangladden roared and struck it with the weapon that he made!

The tree, unfazed, let out a laugh, much to the dwarf's chagrin,
"I am known as Barrowroot, 'tis my land that you're in!

"Your tool, poor fool, will wound me not, it's haft is made of wood!
And even if it weren't, you? Hurt me? I doubt you could!"

So what do you think our hero did? He broke his trusty axe!
And hurled its head right at the tree to knock it on its... grass!

But as it hit old Barrowroot, it then began to rust,
And Gangladden looked on in shock as the blade decayed to dust!

"Was that a tap, you sap?" said Barrowroot, "I felt that not at all!"
It will take far more than that, sir dwarf, before you make me fall!"

So Gangladden just charged headfirst, right at its mighty trunk,
And started tearing with his teeth! Gouging wood in chunks!

"Stop that, you rat!" said Barrowroot, "You're chewing up my bark!"
And it used a branch to send the dwarf soaring in an arc!

Gangladden fell and dashed his jaw upon an oaken wreath,
and when he came to it was then he found he lost all of his teeth!

Disheartened, he sank, as his weapons sank deep within the mire,
so in turn he went to console himself with a flask of firewater.

"A toast to ye, you gruesome tree, you've got me beat to rights,
What say we drink to yer victory, and cease our quarrels and fights?"

Barrowroot hemmed, Barrowroot hawed, and gave it careful thought.
but he took the drink to wet his roots and said, "Eh, why not?"

An hour later, raucous laughter rang throughout the wood,
both Gangladden and Barrowroot were hammered well and good!

"Ho ho, ha ha, my friend, I say! I apologize to you!
You're not so bad, I must confess, and that, I say, is true!

"I'm sorry that I broke your shovel and rusted up your axe,
And I'm dreadful sorry for giving your jaw those horrid, awful cracks!"

"Ach, it's fine, you hunk of wood, for I still got me hands,
And with 'em I will still dig up the metals in your lands!"

At that they laughed, and Barrowroot then clapped him on the back,
"My ugly friend, a gift you'll find awaiting in your shack!"

So Gangladden bid it farewell and travelled homeward bound,
And he rubbed his eyes in disbelief! What wonders there he found!

An axe of solid mithril and a pick of iron cold,
a spade of shining silver and teeth of solid gold!

So the very next day, when he saw the roots returning back in force,
He took that axe to Barrowroot, and chopped him down, of course!

And if you think Gangladden's tale is nothing but a fable,
Then you can fetch a flask of ale and hear it from his table!