Two villages, once best friends, were viciously warring. A seer came to town prophesizing doom as both villages were to "lose their names". The battles stopped. They lived in peace to fortify against the doom. The seer lied, and did not lie, the war stopped, they didn't die. -- Anon Guest
Swindon and Wallowdale had been battling over a pig. The exact circumstances differed depending on who you asked, but the broad strokes were thus: It was the other side who stole it and it was their bound duty to get their revenge against those filthy pig thieves on the other side of the stream.
So far, there had been minor injuries, but things were bound to escalate. Clearly, someone had to do something.
These facts were completely lost on Maggart, who lived in the woods alone and had eaten a few too many of the interesting mushrooms growing in a nearby cave. That, in combination with a lot of equally interesting flora, resulted in her stumbling onto the bridge where both villagers posted up to have there semi-weekly battle.
She was quite the sight. Unkempt, clad in random rags and patches of leather or furs. Looking exactly like she had stepped out of a cautionary woodcut about the dangers of Faekindred wanderers. She was babbling loose collations of syllables that sounded like they could be an unfamiliar language. People kept out of her way and simply let her reach the middle of the bridge.
There, on its crest, she stopped. Maggart turned herself widdershins once. Twice. Thrice. All in breathless silence. She stood stock still. Rigid. While the townsfolk on either side watched in fascination.
Words rose out of her throat.
"Dance out with a jig, fighting for a pig," she sang, "continue without shame, thou shalt lose thy name."
The stories say she disappeared in a puff of smoke. Or otherwise vanished without a trace. Mostly because of the fact that throwing up over the balustrade and then passing out doesn't make as much of a satisfying ending.
All that said, there was only one thing to do when a seeming madwoman emerges from the woods and spouts poetry out of nowhere.
Listen to the warning.
Pitchforks returned to the fields and toolsheds. Clubs and staves returned to their everyday use. The contested pig, now fattened and mature, was slaughtered and became part of a feast central to the debate over what the prophecy meant.
Clearly, the main concurrence held, was that some outside threat would occurr to them both because they were too busy arguing about a pig that never really belonged to anyone anyway. Over very nice sausages, and more ale than should have been healthy, they conferred over plans to fortify themselves against whatever foe may be coming now that their ploughshares were ploughshares once more.
Some were sensible, like putting together a palisade before planning a wall. Some were... less so, like building a castle specifically for their shared pigs so that the villagers need not fret about thievery.
All while Maggart slumbered under the care of two villages' Healers.
She returned to consciousness in two days. Clean, dressed in servicable clothes, and a lot hung over. Maggart stumbled, squinting, into the sunlight to behold the whirlwind of activity that was two towns building a wooden pallisade around their shared border.
One of the villagers from Swindon paused when they saw her. "Any more wisdom from the gods, oh great seer?"
Maggart boggled at them, at the frenzy of preparations, and mumbled, "You're all crazy. I'm going back to the woods." Which, after collecting her things and returning the dress, she did.
To this day, Swindon-Wallowdale is the most impressive walled city in all of Alfarell. It boasts that it has never been conquered by any malevolent force.
They just neglect to mention that any malevolent forces haven't been bothered.
On the other hand, they do serve a lovely pork pie.
[Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash]
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