Message from the Sheriff of Monsedge

My liege, I don't know what to make of the enclosed words. Mott the Swineherd found them on the outer wall of his barn yestermorn. I visited the spot to confirm his report, and he spoke truly: These words do indeed appear arranged as by pixies, in lines of tiny red mushrooms  growing out from the boards of the building. The wise in Croaker Norge—which is to say those much less learned than your highness, but wiser by good measure than me—say the words can come only from Mad Maeve. For myself, I daren't venture such a guess. But who else can command the faeries?

My most excellent scribe, Norton, writes these lines for me. He also copied the words on the barn, which I pray are untrue—or at least so far past my own understanding that I read bane for boon.

Your Obedient Servant,
Willam Redstaff
Sheriff of Monsedge


One thin supper
One still dreamer
Two wan candles
Two dire brothers

In the worm's pot
On a cold bed
In a pyre hot
On a field dead