Has anyone running CoT tried going the extra mile and spinning up the Cugney's Wedding/Wave Door poem, or something like it? I was thinking about trying to write up something abbreviated and similar, but if another artistically inclined GM had already done so, all the better.
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Sorry, no poem writing/coding skills here. I had to be upfront with them and just explain what they learned from the check, without any poem. I'd love to have had that poem.
Here's a first rough draft. I caution: this is terrible, terrible poetry, with a smidge of risque metaphor. But! It pseudo fits the bill....maybe. Thoughts?
Cugney’s Wedding Was to be The
Event of the Century!
The man himself was middle
Aged – yet all agreed he could Wave
Goodbye to older aches and
Pains—for with her he would be
Young again! For her little Door
Remained locked—untouched by man
(or even by a maid’s hand)
…As far as any knew – but lies
have ways of coming out when
hidden by the flaws of men.
And so he arrived that day with
Bells on, in his finest dress
Clothes…he was, in fact a mess!
You see, the bride who waited in
The church before him frightened
Him! All of eighteen she was--
Too fair for an old man! She’d Cut
And run before he could glimpse
Her lithe form out of that dress!
He understood: she’s just a lass—
He understood, but loved her
For more than what he’d caress.
He knew where she was coming From
But still, he thought he’d do well.
It’s true, he had a faint smell
Of mothballs, and there was a Wart
On his nose, but he’d comport
Himself with dignity—some,
At least! He stood for minutes—three—
And entered the church, head high!
His beloved met his eye--
He saw her softly whisper ‘Hun
I think it’s time!’ He could see
An eager, excited sigh!
All at once, he felt that old dred
Melt away! The crowd saw old
Cugney step up a new man!
He saw his life as food sans salt
Sans her, his life seemed so cold…
If he lost her, twas HIS fault.
There was no doubt his palms were soaked
As were his clothes with nerve’s sweat.
The old man felt his cheeks wet
With tears—there were no more cold feet
For he had the love of sweet
Marie, who would HIS wife be.
Poor Cugney saw no tear there, Nor
The girl behind him, misty
Eyed. The sigh he thought eager
Instead bore nerves. But looking east
The sun had risen--meager
Moments remained. Twas time to
do or die! For none there knew the
Lass who was her lady love
Was a witch of quite some skill.
They had committed to their path
The witch produced the small dove
And with whispered words caused ill.
In seconds short the charm did find
His heart, and caused it to bind
His love to his dying day
To the dove upon her finger
To which his eyes did then stray.
One would think that the story
Would end here—however it must
Continue: see, for the lass
Was caught just a smidge—her lust
Set on Cugney, who’d rather pass.
Thus we set a four-side stage:
Youth, and Dove, and Witch, and Age.
The witch—her name was Anne—saw Grand
Plans dissolve to Chaos then!
She loved girl and girl loved man
And man loved bird! Erastil’s Lodge
Still sat, as yet unaware
That things had fast grown quite odd.
The fair bride’s eyes were filled with light
But for Anne she held no sight…
Only Cugney drew her lust.
Cug cared for dove, as now he must.
Without ado or fanfare
The wedding words took to air.
What followed then was quite the show
Westcrown’s never seen its like!
“First off, Marie! Your oath please?”
The cleric asked, and straight off the
bride did swear her life to “He
who stands beside me, that tease,
Let’s head to our bed straight away:
I cannot wait! Please don’t stray!”
The old priest smiled at eager
Youth! He knew that soon she would Delve
Myst’ries bound to marriage beds.
He blessed her oath and turned then…
“I too in turn will swear to hav
and hold this bird beside me!”
Silence reigned supreme just then:
Cugney swore before the heaven’s
His eternal marriage vow.
The crowd—in shock—did not see
The witch step forward to give an oath!
“In that case, take me, Marie!
I pledge marriage to all three!
I’ll take them all—and with a will
That I might have Marie still
Else I’ll live in misery.”
Old Cugney’s wedding worked because
Lovers stepped up without pause.
Without commitment, you see
Misery’s lot was bound to the
Three. Girl, Girl, old man, and dove
Did pledge bed and life today
And love did mend what would be fray.
The translation:
Every line should have seven syllables. The first line of every 3 has 8. Typos in those extra syllables are deliberate clues for the players.
These assemble as follows:
The Wave Door lies within Cutlass--
From Wart three hundred salt-soaked feet
Noreast the pathfinder must pass.
The Grand Lodge light must show the way:
Delvehaven's oath will cause the fray.
As a side note, the poem doesn't scan very well...the counts are right, but the meter could use some work. Ok, a LOT of work. Bleh.
Very nice. Good work.
I wrote (a very very bad) poem in German and made cypher clues as a side note on the "parchment" (as I thought Dargentu would have made). The clues were a little more obvious than in your poem, but did the trick after a good portion of riddling.
Very nice. Good work.
I wrote (a very very bad) poem in German and made cypher clues as a side note on the "parchment" (as I thought Dargentu would have made). The clues were a little more obvious than in your poem, but did the trick after a good portion of riddling.
Thanks!
Yeah, I should definitely consider scrawling a few notes in the margins--maybe syllable counts, and/or circling a few key points. As a player, I know things are always less obvious than they seem to the GM prepping the puzzle.
