Tales of Bjornsborg
A Tale of Her Ursine Excellency, Baroness Alexandra Tatiana Fedorova of Novgorod
by Brendan O'Corraidhe (Circa AS XX):
She was watching a tourney from the shade of her pavilion one summer day (I was going to say "blazingly hot summer day", but that would have been redundant), sipping contentedly from an iced goblet that was beaded with condensation. Sir Simonn of Amber Isle came off the field, sweat pouring down his face.
Smiling, she held the goblet out to him. He gratefully took it from her hands, sighed, drank deeply.... and exploded into a fit of gasping and coughing that was *quite* alarming. He handed the cup back, rasping, "Th-th-that's NOT WATER!"
"No, dear, it's vodka," she smiled sweetly. "You should have asked!"
It might have been the same tourney; I was sharing her shade. I asked her what she was snacking on - it looked like soggy beef jerky. Still watching the field, she replied, "Steak Tartare." Then she turned and looked at me sternly. "And don't you DARE tell ANYONE that I eat raw meat!"
A Tale of Bjornsborg
by Cynric of Bedwyn
Gather ‘round, you sons and daughters of the bear, and I’ll recall the days when Heroes strode the halls of Bjornsborg like leaves scattering before a harvest wind. Then were we a seat of true renown, led by a warrior of might and cunning called John of Eagle’s House (in his native tongue, Jan w Orzeldom). Jan, who once sat the throne of the Sable Star but found ruling a kingdom too tame a life and so returned to lead his tribe, was a man of inestimable grace, wisdom, and puissance.
We were a noble ship with a noble captain at the helm, but ‘tis true that those with whom we came into contact oft times remarked that our behavior was not in keeping with the traditions of neighboring folk. This was as it should be, for we resembled them no more than a giant oak resembles a slender willow. Where others mewled, we roared. As others supped, so did we ravenously devour. While others delicately tippled, our horns were filled and emptied many times over. Naturally, this made us strong of voice and long of song, attributes which, while of great value to Heroes, are not always appreciated by those cut from lesser cloth. And so did our prowess at table and mead bench send Bjornsborg to follow its own and singular path, alone but never friendless.
Except, it must be said, for once a year. At that magical time, just as hoary Winter was at last loosening his icy grip on the land and the spirited hounds of summer could be heard baying over the distant hills, Bjornsborg hosted a glorious tournament in the manner of those in Jan’s homeland of Silesia. It is said some fey spirit inhabited the woods and fields where this tournament took place each Spring, for none who entered its boundaries departed unchanged.
Warriors strove far beyond their accustomed strength, skalds and minstrels with marvelously woven words enfolded the rapt souls of those who wandered near their fires, artisans produced works that surpassed those of the great masters; indeed, the very air seemed enchanted. The hillsides were dotted of an evening with vermilion mists, as though all the myriad hearth fires of Fäerie smoldered thereon.
Some who graced these lands with their presence are no longer to be found in the halls and war fields of Ansteorra, having taken up residence in Valhalla on Odin’s right hand, but if you watch with the mind's eye you may yet glimpse the shades of they who strode as giants in those heady days.
Throughout these two score years and three, the Land of the Bear has seen no lack of upheavals, yet we’ve met all challenges cast our way. Cattle raids, boar hunts, noble quests, barbarian invasions, Sarmatian visitations, Viking invasions, encounters with magical isles, flaming villages, rock farmers, Highland hooligans, and many’s the grand tournament have been witnessed in these borders. Some are born to be Heroes, others have Heroism thrust upon them...but all Heroes, all Lions, heed the call of Bjornsborg sooner or later.
