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The Shire of the Wastelands was located in Enid, Oklahoma. It was in the Northern Region of Ansteorra.

It was disbanded in ??.

The name was registered in November of 1993.

Their device was registered at the same time: Azure, two stalks of wheat in saltire surmounted by another palewise, all within a laurel wreath Or.

The Goodbye

by Finnacan
Salutations, Ansteorra,

This past weekend at Kingdom A&S the Kingdom Seneschal formally announced the disbanding of the Shire of the Wastelands.

With a heavy heart, I recall what lived in the breezy plains of our
northern reaches, and what still stirs around our fires and feast tables.
Did you know the Wastelands, who sleeps now like a maiden gowned in gold?
How cruel that her realm was so distant to so many.
How harsh the wind that now walks her roads.
Did the tide-tested folk of Loch Sollier ever see those shining tresses?
Did the cheery residents of the Gates ever hear the cry of her hawks?
Did the rank of the Seawinds ever catch her perfume in the night?
Did the guard of the Bordermarch ever gaze upon her silken shoulders?
Did the stalwart of Bjornsburg ever spy the flash of her steel?
Did the scholars of Bryn Gwlad ever note her cunning and craft?
Did the Graywood ever ring with her songs?
Did the Fynnon Gath folk ever drink from her cellars?
Did the merry Middleforders ever know of her wit?
Did the Shadowlands ever brave the storms of her realm?
Did the pilgrims of Stonebridge Keep ever walk her gardens?
Did the populace of Tir Medoin ever stroll the fields of her keeping?

Let men of good grace now toast her memory and have a care for those unjustly robbed of her company.

I remember her halls and her courtyards. I remember her hospitality and her grace. I remember the weariness in her eyes and the dedication in her stride. I know her children and call them friends. Her brood were warriors and legends of the court, dreamers and magicians and riddlers all. She kept her fires burning and her towers brightly lit. Now dark, we still see their shape against the moon. What a wondrous jest to think her realm a wasteland, when every measure of it was as an orchard in summer, heavy with sweet refreshment.I give you no rhyme for memorials, no song for a lamenting dirge, just the wistful rambling of a man who, like many, once met a maiden crowned in wheat and veiled with sunshine, and was a better man for it. May the maiden wake again one day.