Dr Embers Verse and Tales
Dr Embers: Verse & Tale stories and poetry told by the fire.
Each week begins with a single thought — a line from a philosopher, poet, or thinker — and journeys through classic tales and original works that explore the themes shaping our lives.
Here, not all stories are told the same way.
Here, you are invited to sit by the fire.
Here, you may unwind and let your imagination wander to places you may never have been.
Ideas you may never have considered.
New episodes every Sunday.
The fire is lit.🔥
Dr Embers Verse and Tales
Dr Embers Presents - The Lay of the Black Toll Knight
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"He who is feared by many must fear many."
— Publilius Syrus
Fear is ever present. No matter how big, brutal, or fearsome we may appear, we are all shaped by it. It warns us of danger, keeps us alive, and reminds us of our mortality. Yet left unchecked, it can become a prison of our own making.
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Recently I was challenged to take a simple children's story and transform it into an Arthurian-style legend.
The result is The Lay of the Black Toll Knight.
Have I succeeded in turning a children's tale into a medieval legend?
You tell me...
So draw closer to the fire and join me for a tale of fear, power, wisdom, and the strange ways in which even the mightiest may be brought low.
The Fire is Lit!
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This is Verse and Tales, a podcast of story and poetry told by the fire. Fear is among the oldest companions of mankind. It keeps us from danger, warns us of threats, and reminds us of our mortality. Yet fear can also rule us. It can build prisons where no walls exist, turn powerful men into frightened children, and as Publius Sirius once observed, he who is feared by many must fear many. Tonight, through story, we shall explore fear. What it makes of us, what it takes from us, and how even the most fearsome amongst us are no less susceptible to her whims. So draw a little closer to the fire. The tale begins. Whilst embered hearth encased in stone, throws restless ghosts on deepening night. Come warm thy hands beside the flame, And hear the phoenix knight's cursed name. Black Aldrich of the Iron Keep, whose shadows choked a town of peace, born unto rank and noble station, cast from court through dark damnation. Cruelty beyond all contemplation made him a plague upon creation. For beasts may hunger, and storms may rage. Cruel men shall have a war upon these. There stood of old beside a stream, a prosperous town, a sleepy dream. One bridge alone crossed o'er the tide, old Roman stone with arches wide. Then came Aldrich, clad in black, with neither lord nor banner at his back. Upon the bridge he took his stand, and claimed the crossing for his hand. Pay silver coin, the tyrant cried. Or feed the rivers, hungry tie. None dared challenge, all afraid. For fear once born is slow to fade. Some whispered, he has ridden east, beyond the lands of Christendom. Some swore no blade had pierced his flesh. Others claimed he was already dead. Up beneath the iron helm, the grinned a skull instead. Yet none could say what tale was true. They knew but this, this bridge was his. Upon it rested two simple earthen vessels. Within two innocent cups of mead. The colour of new minted gold. Bright beneath the breaking dawn. Silence. Even the river seemed to slow. The night frowned. Have age and rot consumed thy mind. The old man answered calmly. The contest is simple. Before God and Mr. Sembled Witness, we shall each choose a vessel and drain its contents. Whosoever first refuseth or falleth before the other, shall be judged, defeated, and the victor shall remain, and the vanquished shall quit this place. Neer to return. At this the knight removed his helm, fixed the old man with a hard, searching stare. Long did he gaze into those ancient eyes, unsure whether to strike the fool dead for such insolence. Or suffer this strange jest to play itself out. At length his pride chose for him. Very well, said Aldrich. I accept thy challenge. This the old man gestured to the cups. According to the ancient rites of conduct, thou must choose first. But hear me well, before thy hand. One cup conceals an eastern poison. No scent nor taste reveals its nature. One sip alone still thy heart. Thou shalt drink of that that thou choosest, and I shall drink the other, and let God decide the victor. The knight reached forth with swagger grim. One cup here, one cup there. Suddenly he felt the weight of all his sins. He heard the devil whispering low, of judgment waiting should he choose the fatal cup. Could feel the fires warming up here honour bound him fast before the town, before his god, before the ancient laws of challenge, he could not turn away, nor could he choose. He faced many a foe, and ne'er known fear, but now with these two cups of mead in front of him, the choice spared low. The chance the one may bear his death. He knew a fear he has never known. The people saw the knight with no fear. His gauntlet hovered and shifted slow. One cup here, one cup there. His breath grew harsh, sweat gathered thick beneath the steel. For every choice became a grave, for all the iron the world could give cannot save a man from the oldest tyrant. Out, which gnaws the heart from the inside out. The old man watched him quietly. Death wreath, no sword, no sorcery, only uncertainty. The light stepped back. Then further fled. At last, with one strangled cry, he spurred his steed and turned to fly. Away from bridge and town and shame, like devil chased by his own name, and when the townsfolks turned to cheer their Saviour, standing near, the old man stood. With them no more. No footprint marked the frosted ground. No trace of him was ever found. Some claim they saw him walking at twilight through the abbey mist. Others swore an ancient king had come to judge the proud. None ever saw the knight again. Some say he drowned in marsh and fen, some say he wandered mad with fright, still dreaming poisoned mead at night. Yet others whispered something worth. And thus at last he met his death. Not by poison, nor by blade, but by the fear his own mind made. So mark this tale, ye proud and tall, The greatest tyrants, rise and fall. For brute force rules the weak a while, yet wisdom waits behind the smile. Thus by cunning it was shown, How fear may build an iron throne, And how one quiet soul may still bring giants low through strength of will. And so my tale does end, as the fire does burn low, and the river black still seems to flow, and somewhere in this darkest of nights, the David waits for his Goliath. If this place has become familiar, you can follow the podcast, so the next story finds you. And if you have thoughts, reflections, or ideas, speak up. If you'd like to request a favorite story, poem, or theme, I am all ears. Perhaps you too have crafted a wondrous work you wish to be shared by the fire. You'll find a way to share it in the episode notes. Until we meet again, keep the fire close.