#tavern lore

Most nations choose a real predator to represent them on a shield. A wolf. A bear. A soaring eagle.

Scotland went a different route entirely. They chose a creature from a storybook. Modern tourists think it’s a joke, a bit of whimsical, harmless folklore meant for the gift shops.

It isn't.

In the medieval world, that beast wasn't a children's toy. It was an untamable engine of pure malice. It didn't yield to spears, and it didn't step into traps. If you look closely at the historical Scottish royal coat of arms, the beast is wrapped in heavy gold chains, physically bound to the crown. It was a psychological warning to the rest of Europe: Our land breeds a chaos so dangerous, only a king can put it on a leash.

But you don't keep a weapon like that just to show off the gold. You keep it because of what it hunts.

If you go back to the old texts on heraldry, this creature was recognized as the ultimate apex predator. It was known as the only beast in existence capable of hunting, cornering, and tearing a lion to absolute pieces.

And the lion... just happens to be the national animal of England.

Long time no type, how are you guys doin’?  I’m doing pretty decent, save for a hurt foot, but it’s nothing a cold wrap won’t fix.  Anywho, on with the news.

I’ve been somewhat reluctant to post this, as it ultimately means failure on my part when it comes to a piece of work, but quite honestly I don’t think I can grow as a writer if I can’t move past a failure.  That’s what happened with Up in the Air, and I swore to myself that I wouldn’t fall into the same trap.  but I have, and both my creativity, the story revolving around Keith and Lilith, and really you guys (whoever is still reading this Tumblr).  So the main problem I have is thus:  I want to end Deathblossom, not like give it a happily ever after, but rather no longer keep writing it.  It really is no shame to stop a project, many have done it before, and even some works out in the public have been rewritten at least 50 times to get that pristine shine.  

So what would I do instead?  Anything and everything.  This blog, while giving you guys a look into my mind, has always been about testing my creative chops, how whether I can produce a story that satisfies and entertains, and work towards ultimately becoming an author.  Whether I succeed in that is irrelevant, kind of like achieving a skill that takes a lifetime to achieve, that’s what I want.  If interest is there, I WILL continue Deathblossom.  

That’s where I’d need your input.  Whether I get it or not, I’m going to be focusing my energies on different one-shots, mini-multi parters, and stories made through the inspiration of other works, like a caption to a picture or a story from a verse.  Fun.  That’s what I want to get back to, and that’s something I hope you will have reading my future works.

Until next time, I should have something for you at the end of the this week!

If you are outlining a massive fantasy epic, or trying to render a whole digital world from scratch, you know the trap. You spend weeks building the dark lore, detailing the environment, figuring out the cosmic creation myth... and you never actually make the protagonist take a step.

It's called Worldbuilder's Disease. It is a very specific type of perfectionist paralysis.

Castle brings up the ultimate historical cure for this in the tavern: Tolkien's absolute refusal to overcomplicate Bilbo's starting zone.

We revere Tolkien as the master of preparation. But in the 1937 edition of The Hobbit, the word "Shire" is absent. Bilbo lives in Hobbiton, on "The Hill." That's it. Tolkien had the deep, ancient history of Middle-earth floating in his head, but when it came time to actually write the story, he didn't let the lack of a perfectly named starting region stop him. He just pushed Bilbo out the door with a wizard and a handful of dwarves.

The map didn't dictate the journey. The journey dictated the map. He figured out the borders of the Shire after he realized how big the rest of the world was.

Castle peeling an apple in the tavern while discussing Tolkien is the perfect backdrop for a lesson on sharp instruments. Swords are fine, but a good vocabulary cuts much deeper.

We often romanticize J.R.R. Tolkien for his sweeping worldbuilding, his beautiful Elvish languages, and his deep love of nature. But we forget that as an Oxford philologist, he had an absolute mastery of the English language—and when he wanted to, he could be utterly devastating.

Look at the linguistic escalation of insults in The Lord of the Rings.

It starts with hobbit politics. Bilbo Baggins delivers a mathematically confusing, perfectly passive-aggressive burn to his own relatives: "I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

Then it scales up to the politics of kings. When the manipulative wizard Saruman tries to gaslight King Théoden into a peace treaty, Théoden doesn't just say no. He paints a violent, poetic picture of exactly where Saruman belongs: "When you hang from a gibbet at your window for the sport of your own crows, I will have peace with you."

But the absolute crown jewel of the series is Gandalf verbally dissecting Gríma Wormtongue. It is a masterpiece of alliteration and rhythm: "Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm."

That isn't just an insult; it's an execution.

If you look through the historical inventory records of the world's most famous toy company, you will quickly realize a bizarre truth: for decades, LEGO never officially made a pink brick.

What you probably think of as pink is, according to their internal system, "Light Reddish Violet." That darker pastel one? "Bright Purple." And the classic vibrant brick that has been stepping on parents' feet for half a century is officially designated as "Light Purple." Obviously.

It sounds like a corporate clerical error, but it is actually a fantastic linguistic quirk. Why is it that for over thirty years, a multi-billion dollar empire refused to use the word "pink"?

The answer lies in their geography. LEGO was founded and is headquartered in Billund, Denmark. Unlike English, the Danish language historically does not treat pink as its own distinct, standalone base color. To a native Danish speaker, that hue is categorized as lyserød—which literally translates to "light red."

Because their native tongue simply didn't bother to invent an entirely separate categorical word for the color, the rigid factory inventory systems followed suit. They leaned on mathematical variations of red, violet, and purple instead.

Denmark has always had a very particular, utilitarian relationship with minimalist design. They looked at a universal color representing love, softness, and joy, and simply decided it was unnecessary to give it a special name.

Every spring, the internet engages in a vicious fight over whether the word "Easter" proves the holiday is secretly a pagan ritual. But this argument only exists if you have a massive Anglo-centric blind spot.

If you look at the rest of the world, the debate vanishes completely. In Greek, it’s Pascha. In Italian, Pasqua. In French, Pâques. In Spanish, Pascua. In Russian, Paskha. Almost the entire Christian world uses a word directly derived from the Hebrew Pesach, meaning Passover.

So why does the English-speaking world say "Easter" (and the Germans "Ostern")? Because the holiday moves around on the lunar calendar. The early Anglo-Saxons simply referred to the time of year it happened to fall in—Eosturmonath, which roughly translated to the month of April.

It is a hyper-local linguistic quirk. The holiday isn't named after a goddess; it’s named after the calendar month it happened to land in.

A chara... I know you're not drinking enough water. Don't lie to the barkeep. And some of you will immediately get defensive and say, "Well, I drink coffee or beer—there's water in that."

If you were a fourteenth-century peasant, I might actually give you some leeway on that argument.

Our ancestors weren't fools. They noticed very quickly that drinking straight from the local river often left you bleeding from places you really shouldn't be. But ale? You might wake up having bedded the town's donkey or the chief's least desirable daughter... but the bleeding was significantly rarer, and usually just the result of a tavern brawl.

The real magic wasn't the alcohol itself. It was the kettle. The brewing process required boiling the water, which accidentally killed off the filth and bacteria long before it ever reached the cup.

In the twenty-first century, we generally don't have those excuses. We just like our sugary, caffeinated, and alcoholic drinks.

Though, now that I really think about it... there are plenty of cases of horrific water quality even today. We have municipal lead pipes, heavy mining runoff, and literal flammable tap water in some towns. So I suppose I've just entirely defeated my own argument.

It is always fascinating to see how time completely sanitizes ancient survival mechanics into cute, modern superstitions.

Take the horseshoe above the door. Ask anyone today, and they will tell you it's a lucky charm. Hang it like a 'U' to catch the luck, or hang it upside down to pour the luck onto whoever walks through the door.

But Castle's history lesson in the tavern gets straight to the gritty, original intent: it wasn't originally about luck. It was a weapon of deterrence.

In Celtic and broader European folklore, the Fae (fairies, sprites, the Good Folk) were repelled by "cold iron." The symbolic reasoning behind this interpretation is brilliant. The Fae are the embodiment of the wild, untamed, chaotic natural world. They are the deep woods and the unpredictable storms.

Iron is the exact opposite. It is the pinnacle of human industry. It cannot be found in a usable state in nature; it must be mined, smelted in extreme heat, and beaten into shape on an anvil. It is human will forced upon the earth.

When humanity mastered the forge, the stories say the old magic was driven back. So, nailing a heavy, rusted piece of iron above your threshold wasn't just a plea for good fortune. It was a ward. It was a physical declaration to the creatures of the forest that this house belonged to the builders, the smiths, and the tamers of the world.