There’s something about Nysaris that invites folk in. And I don’t mean the usual Faire, ‘Welcome! Everything is for sale’! invitation. No; there is something far deeper inside Nysaris, a city built around a goddess of hope.
The Realm had such a Classical Greek atmosphere that I was surprised to find myself in the company of a white raven. Since Apollo began the practice of shooting the messenger when the (white) raven who brought him the news of a lover’s infidelity had the audacity not to peck out the lady’s eyes, the god cursed all ravens to be black from that moment on. I’d hesitate to venture into a place like Nysaris if I were a kvitravn. For now, I’m calling him Sciathán Bán, because it’s a silly play on the Irish poem Pangur Bán. “Pangur” just means “cat”, and “bán” is “white”, so I checked with Brán for the word for “raven”— which I failed to pronounce after half a dozen attempts. He suggested “sciathán”, which means “wing”, instead— and that, it turns out, I can pronounce, with practice. I’ve made it clear to him that we are avoiding Apollo at all costs.Continue reading Nesting in Nysaris