The tankard our lady raised had once belonged to the king. They say it was on the table as he sang the great onward ballads. Most vessels in his time were plain, yet this one was carved with the incomplete map. One could follow it as far as the old king had been, to the edge of ‘the known.’ Everyone knew that around its other side was only a smooth canvas awaiting the chisel. They say it was this way so that he would see his task with every sip of mead. Yet with his passing, horses saddled, she is the one we’ll follow over the line.
Fill the tankard and raise the cup, let the mead flow free and sweet, for upon this day we are victors.
In the mud lay a glimpse of metal, the grey of tarnished silver - not all the way to black but instead a patina of many shades. Tamsin bent to remove it from the dirt, a cup of sorts with one handle and a hinged lid that defied movement. With the hem of her shirt she rubbed it clean before stowing it in her pack.