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The work contained on this page is the property and copyright of Arravis and Cygnus. Candlekeep claims no rights or ownership of the text below and is displayed here with permission.
Nat Wyler's Belle
By Arravis & Cygnus
About Nat Wyler this tale I tell.
In the distant town of Phlan he'd dwelled,
Where once his feasthall did quite well.
With each hoot for ale did he ring his bell.
When the hand of death did snuff his spark,
Behind his countertop was parked,
Nat Wyler's body stiff and stark,
Lacquered on a patron's lark.
But summoned from his rest one night,
The cruel result of a Cleric's spite,
Ole Nat Wyler sat upright,
To give the town an awful fright!
And so he stepped out his grave,
But to his stomach he was slave.
Though his yearnings, they were not depraved.
T'was apple muffins he did crave.
But so long was he cold and pale,
And fancies he had missed.
A baker's treat and a nice cold ale
Ole Nat, he could not resist!
So! To the bak'ry he stole in the night,
Unseen by stars and lantern-lights,
Through the streets till he did sight,
A store of these wondrous delights.
But lo, that weren't all he'd take!
For the general store he soon did make.
For who else, after eating such a cake
Would not have a thirst they'd need to slake?
So for ale he ventured right,
Unseen by moon and candlelight.
Through the streets till he did sight,
A store of this wondrous delight.
But most bizarre was his third-most stop,
For next he went to the perfumist's shop.
Exotic scents he stole, but he was no fop,
For a swooning woman they were, every drop.
But so long was he cold and pale,
And fancies he had missed.
A baker's treat and a nice cold ale
Ole Nat, he could not resist!
And to her home, Nat Wyler'd gone,
Her voice to him a nymph's fair song.
Not knowing he'd been dead so long,
His lady had to the heavens gone.
But Phlan in all its justly fright,
Had hired Heroes full of might.
These travelers, the leaves in a falls flight,
Would bring this travesty to light.
So Ole Nat sat, heart battered and torn,
Till found by the Heroes duty sworn
To smite this monster from undeath born,
But yet touched that Nat was so forlorn.
Who, not the beast that they had come to rend,
Though a ghastly savage, they could not pretend.
Munificently, to his grave they'd Nat Wyler send,
His torn heart the ages for to mend.
Being not murd'rous fiend nor beast from Hell,
The Heroes sought to treat him well.
They led him to a temple cell
By ringing Ole Nat's belov'd bell.
But so long was he cold and pale,
And fancies he had missed.
A baker's treat and a nice cold ale
Ole Nat, he could not resist!
His undead state he'd fine'ly learn'd,
And to resume his rest he badly yearn'd.
So back to his grave he was return'd,
A final sleep and rightly earn'd.
Now once again in his bar he stands,
That mighty bell in his cold smooth hands.
But his patrons now they understand,
Nat Wyler's just as ever like any man.
When they raise their beers and give their hoots,
To the Heroes and Ole Nat Wyler with hearty salutes,
For the Heroes' deeds and Nat's wants, too:
Valors, Apples, Ales, and good women, through and through!