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Saber of the Fox 
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Joined: Tue Apr 10, 2012 4:05 pm
Posts: 322
Location: Lublin - Poland
[small storry of mine i want o finish at last...my friend helped me with translation i hope ya will like that]



Prologue



A few words about Polish Noblemen told by a bard. About the influence of meads and lasses on the moods. About a visit of a vulpine to the manor of Wulfchines.



Oh, my noble friends, I will serve you with a story about Kitsunwit and his exploits. But in order to understand an individual, sometimes we have to delve into general. My friend, give me, please, this pitcher of mead, as the smell tempts me. And as it is, I cannot talk, as my mind is wandering.

Aw, thank you, Mr Grausheist… Grimsheist? Have I mispronounced? Well, you have to drink with me more often, I give you my nobille verbum, that though I am a poor… What? That I should skip to ad rem? So I’ll do…

Polish nobleman isn’t any Frenchman with powdered wig and pomaded mouth, but one with a head shaved after knight fashion and with scars after a sabre. Polish nobleman isn’t any Spaniard with flounces and puffed sleeves, but one with linen garment that isn’t to regret when it’s blooded or dirty after a throw to the ground. Polish nobleman isn’t any German, who stretches out his hand with a friendly smile and who sinks his knife in your vulnerable back after a while, but one who solves his feuds face to face. Polish nobleman gets his nobility with his birth, but reaffirms it during the struggles.

Here, in Polish Rzeczpospolita, you love or hate with all your heart. Let me take a sip of mead, my noble friends, as I started to speak with husky voice because of this jawing. Aw, nowhere in the world could you find such a beverage! And such a revels are few and far between. In France noblemen are unable to enjoy themselves, only sipping their wine with little nips in almost complete silence. Peasants are more noble there, but king oppresses them harshly. Polish nobleman is on almost equal terms with a king and has a right to decide his own fate. Drink to it, my friends! Aw, so gently does this mead flow down my throat that even my fox-tail started to dance regardless of my mind!

Briefly, my friends, life is hard here. But if I were to choose where should I be born, I wouldn’t choose any other place. As the sodomy spreads everywhere outside my beloved motherland. I will rather sleep in the open air in the step of my company’s singing and a crackling of branches in the fire than in a silk bedding with soft pillow. I will rather chase across the fields on the horse’s back, my sabre brandish than in a coach across the boring beaten tracks. I will rather take eager lasses in a haystack and give them a bliss in the step of their begging for it than bow to the damsel, for whom sabre is no defence. You need to know, friends, that in France, Spain and Germany fencing lessons are inadvisable for damsels. No wonder, as they prefer to rape the women, giving them no chance to defence. I will rather dance unrestrained, overturning tables, in the step of wild lyre and drums than to sad waltzes and slow music. I will rather smell of mead and gunpowder than of needless flower extracts.

Ah! Fur rises on my back, when the passion consumes me. Come, my beautiful lass! Lick my nose, so that I, the old veteran, could calm down. Oh… Purr… What? To continue? I’ll do!

I’ve promised you to tell about Jacob Kitsunwit. But his story begins much more earlier before his birth. Once noble, Wulfchine’s lass, married a wolf, her alike. Andrew Wulfchine loved her very much, however God begrudged him only one thing: fertility. His brother, Jonas, also lusted after her a lot, however Angeline Wulfchine was a pugnacious female, willing to brandish sabre. So that Jonas ‘d gone without her.



WHAT? I am BORING?! So maybe you, fucked cur the son of bitch, will leave with me and our sabres? Very well… So you’d better shut up or swagger as you’re spoiling me amusement. Oh, my pretty lass, if you kiss me passionately, I will take my bandura and play a special concert for you. Purr… Good girl.

At any rate, Andrew Wulfchine desired to have a son, but he could not. As he hated sin and adultery and didn’t want to divorce his wife, as he loved her more than his own life, he decided to die quietly and childless, making over all his property to his brother. Jonas was immensely glad about it. However his happiness had come too early. Angeline Wulfchine was in the grace of God. She’d got pregnant.

Oddly enough, she turned out to be pregnant shortly after arrival of young noble vulpine to the manor of Wulfchines. He was a veteran of fights with Tartars on the eastern border. A lot of lasses hankered after him. He taught them fencing, unnecessarily anyway, as after our tradition every lass is accustomed to sabre since she turns four.

Nobleman was poor, but of great stock. He had glossy fur. His face and torso were covered with scars, which only made him more handsome. His tail was still bushy, eyes were smart and deep like two brown wells.

His name was Gedeon Kitsunchin.

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Wed May 07, 2014 4:46 pm
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