The Song of Tinsdale
By gwydeon MacGowall

Listen here, as I tell yea a tale of battle and courage, 
the tale of the mighty Norse warrior-maiden Tove, 
and the valiant Fion Howell, wise and strong, 
the tale of the dragon of Tinsdale. 
 
Dark times were these, with the High King lay with Arawn, 
and bandits roamed the trails and roads, 
plaguing commonfolk and warrior alike. 
 
The evil powers knew it was their time to rise, 
and so came the beast out of the darkest swamp in all the land, 
a foul stain upon the green land, 
which birthed a fouler monster not seen by living men for a thousand 
years. 
 
The monster, for monster it was, walked upon a score and more of legs, 
and measured the length of ten men, 
and its slavering maw, filled with sharpened teeth, 
could swallow a warrior whole and leave not a bone for his kin to 
mourn him. 
 
Its hide was of the hardest reptile scale, 
unpiercable by normal men and normal spears, 
and even the swords of strong warriors were turned aside. 
 
In battle, it would bite a man in half, 
or swallow him whole up, 
and 'til this faithful day I speak of, 
none had seen it and lived to tell the tale. 
 
Word of this black beast spread far and wide across the land, 
and heroes came to defeat it, 
the first of which was the noble and valiant Fion Howell, 
truly a lord among men, 
and with him came Fergus, squire and prince in his own right, 
and the maiden Li'Bon, a woman of great beauty and fiery hair. 
 




And from the frozen north, across darkened foamy seas, 
came the warrior-maiden Tove, 
a woman of size and strength to match any Firbolg, 
and with ferocity and skill to match any Viking of her land. 
 
She carried a spear as tall as her, and half again as high, 
and a mighty sword, forged by the smiths of her land, 
in the likeness of a burning flame. With her came the dwarf Halfaust, 
half as high as a man, but twice as fierce, 
whose love for ale was matched only by his skill with a dagger. And from hidden hills mysterious came a clansman of the Tuatha D'Dannon 
named Treon, 
a Sidhe of great power and worth, 
and wisdom also, 
and his Fey companion, Fen of the sprites, 
powerful spirit of the woods and waters of the land. 
 
The black monster, sensing that these mighty warriors had come for it, 
rose out of the swamp like the dead from a disgraced grave, 
and let loose a roar heard 'cross the land of Ire. 
 
To the kingdom of Tinsdale it came, tearing through trees and brush, 
as if they were mere blades of grass. 
 
It came upon the town and roared again, 
and sought to wreak havoc among the dwellers there, 
attacking the unarmed in the manner of a mad beast. 'By my clansmen!' yelled Treon the Sidhe, 
'tis an afnak, kin of dragons! 
My clan is sworn to wipe their blight from this fair land!' 
and he took to the air, though wingless, and harried the 
beast with his mighty golden sword, 
giving it many small wounds through the armor. 
 
The Fion Howell, riding upon a golden war chariot, 
Prince Fergus at his side, made for the beast, 
and threw their spears of yew at the monster, 
but it gave no ground, 
as its foul hide was armor of the greatest sort, 
and their lances did not pierce its side. 
 

The monster lashed and bit, and the chariot was broken, 
horses slain, and Howell braced his feet, warblade in hand, 
swinging with the might of the Fion behind him. 
 
But again the armor held, and the blow was deflected, 
and the traitorous monster lashed out with its score of legs, 
and Howell was put onto the ground by many grievous blows. 
 
But Tove, the warrior-maiden of the Norse, would not have this, 
and she lowered her spear at the monster, 
and called upon the fury of the Norsemen. Her spear bit deep into the soft belly of the beast, 
and it shrieked in the manner of the banshee, 
and all who heard it were deafened, 
but Tove merely laughed and drew her blade of flame, 
and stabbed again, cutting deep into the core of the creature. 
 
But its treasonous flesh caught upon the blade, 
and though she pulled it free with her mighty strength, 
it sought revenge for its mortal wounding, and lashed at her, 
and jaws closed around her and she was lifted high into the air. 
 
But the men of Tinsdale yelled 'You shall not have her!' 
and they pulled a stake from the ground, 
from the stockade on the hill, 
and charged the black beast with this spear, 
the length of three men and half again. 
 
The mighty lance drove into the side of the monster, 
piercing to its very heart, 
and it fell dead and released the warrior-maiden Tove, 
who had suffered many wounds from its jagged teeth. 
 
And that night in Tinsdale such a celebration was never had, 
with singing and dancing and a feast of mutton and mead, 
and the telling of this tale was heard first there, 
by a wandering bard who happened upon this feat. 
 
And this tale is told to hearten the minds of the people, 
who must always remember that if dark powers threaten the land, 
brighter heroes will come to save it from harm.