The Beaver King, Cautionary Tales of Medieval Dysfunction

This Minstrelle sang the song in a public room, where people were already gathered and no announcement was required. The setting was ordinary: a chair, a lute, a table cleared of plates. No name was spoken. None was needed.

By the second verse, recognition settled in. Not outrage—recognition. Laughter followed, uninvited and collective, the kind that comes from agreement rather than surprise.No one objected. No authority intervened. That absence was noted.

This Minstrelle finished the song, gathered her instrument, and left the room as she had entered.

The audience stayed behind, still laughing.

Legend in His Own Mind 
by This Minstrelle

He entered rooms and spoke as king,
Though none had named him anything;
No vote, no oath, no binding sign
Confirmed the rule he claimed as mine.

He gave out orders, firm and long,
But nothing changed from right to wrong;
His words were heard, then set aside,
Observed, recorded, not applied.

No one deferred. No one obeyed.
They nodded, waited, then delayed.
His will required a second hand
To matter or to ever stand.

Behind his back, his title thinned
To something said but not believed;
A name repeated without weight,
A claim that failed to operate.

He named all limits acts of spite,
And exits moral parasites;
He called resistance cruelty,
And silence proof of loyalty.

He kept his lists of being wronged,
Each entry careful, neat, and long;
No ledger held the damage done—
Only the harm he swore he’d won.

The room stayed still. He read that sign
As proof of faith and lasting tie.
The record stands, precise, confined:
A legend only
in his mind.