The Real Folk Blues

14 Mar, 2026

No sooner had Chevalier and I quitted the bookshop than we took to walking along the quay of Puerto da Gaula. He carried himself less like a wandering knight than like a keeper of Lore, while I attempted—rather unconvincingly—to pass for a hijosdalgo de lanza en astillero, though my wizardly habits betrayed me at every turn. Chevalier remarked that there was little need for such pretence: whether named or not, he said, we were all upon a Quest for Lore in the lands of Calafia, and in that sense we were both already Lore Seekers.

I answered that my journey followed the fables of Master Elisabat, who had written in Ancient Greek Las Sergas concerning the Mythical Land of Calafia. Chevalier seemed amused by this and hinted that I might soon have the opportunity to learn more, perhaps even through an audience with Calafia III, the granddaughter of the famed queen. The thought surprised me, though I could not help raising a doubt: the version of the tale I had heard spoke of a manuscript found in Constantinople, carried westward by a Hungarian traveller to the lands of the vacceos, near Numancia. In that account, the story of Calafia had mingled with the Christian chronicles of the old world.

Chevalier corrected me with a calm certainty. The world we walked in, he said, was older than the one my scholars spoke of, and in it the first Queen Calafia had never converted to Christianity. She had remained faithful to the vow she made to the women of her host—an army, if such a word could be used, formed entirely by the courage of women who for generations had guarded the people of that island in East Asia. Hearing this, I conceded that the tale of my homeland differed greatly from the one told here. Yet we were no longer in my homeland, but in Calafia, and what Chevalier recounted belonged truly to its Folk.

FOLK

Chevalier laughed at my ready willingness to accept the fables of these lands, where I was still but a newcomer. Yet I realised then that a tale is not a partial truth, but the proof of some fragment of a truth. Until that moment, I had never quite grasped the difference. As we walked along the quay, our conversation became a quiet exchange of such fragments, as though we were performing a small rite through the most ordinary of talks. In Calafia, magic is not some raw elemental force to be wielded at will; rather, it lives within the traditions and customs of its people.

I found this mildly ironic, given that I had introduced myself as a wizard. Had I been born in this land, my trade would likely have earned me no living at all. The notion of livelihood here differs somewhat from that of the country I once called home, though the matter hardly concerns my past or present. Still, magic in these lands carries its own dangers—much as it does, I presumed with the lazy confidence of habit, in most other places besides.

During our walk Chevalier proposed that we stop at the Mercado de Santa Catalina, where a book awaited him. We arrived before long. Though the market was crowded, the final light of the setting sun and a gentle breeze drifting in from the open sea softened the mellow music of a horned gramophone somewhere among the stalls.

When Chevalier returned, he carried the book with visible excitement and showed me its cover—blue, textured like the cloth of denim. The title at the top read FOLK, yet what truly caught my eye was the circular emblem at its centre, something like a seal, perhaps even a glyph. For a moment I could not tell whether he meant to speak to me of a game or of magic; the symbol alone seemed to draw me inward. Chevalier explained that it alluded to The Rabbit Magician from Charles G. Leland’s The Algonquin Legends of New England. When I asked when it had been published, he only smiled and directed my attention to the line at the bottom: a folklore-inspired tabletop role-playing game. Then he told me the tome was written by Alessandro Forlini, Silvia Ka, and Camilla Zamboni, to the loving memory of Davide Ragona, a wonderful, talented, dedicated, passionate, and kind soul.

I stared at the cover as I was a lighthouse guiding the last galleon upon the seas, and at last managed to ask "May I read it?". Chevalier’s answer was simple: "Would you rather play it?".

I present myself, Your Highness: I am a Lore Seeker.

Passing beyond the marble columns, we entered a courtyard enclosed by lime-washed walls and roofs the colour of lapis lazuli. The place was alive with plants from distant lands and a noisy conference of birds. There we were intercepted by a woman of bronzed skin and powerful bearing, clad in a resplendent suit of armour. She greeted Chevalier as both her knight and her keeper of swans, and asked what matter brought us to seek an audience at such an hour. Chevalier explained that I was a traveller from a far country, a practitioner of magic in my own land, who had come to Calafia in search of games.

Looking upon me as though she would scrutinise my very soul, she asked the question that no one had yet put to me since my arrival in Calafia. “But thou must have a name, must thou not, wizard?”—she asked. “Yes… my name… is Antonio”—I replied. “In thy own land thou didst use another,” she said, with calm certainty, “and if my gift does not fail me, thy mind cries out that until I asked thee, it was never Antonio. But tell me, Antonio—what wouldst thou have for thy surname?” Her expression shifted then, from a judicious gaze that had uncovered my small deceit to a warmer and more sympathetic smile.

“Would it please Your Highness if my surname were California?” I asked. “I have seen the future, and I believe this island shall one day become an entire land; the birds have whispered as much to me.” She considered this with amusement before asking how we should address my person. Lowering my voice, I ventured, “Your Highness… for this meeting alone… might you refer to me as comrade?” At this both she and Chevalier burst into laughter, though they kindly granted the request.

Chevalier then asked about my past, addressing me with exaggerated courtesy as Comrade Antonio California. I told him there was little to say, that I came from far away, from some direction in a land without name, where I had practised both magic and technology—two crafts that to my mind scarcely differ. I admitted I was slender, but perhaps too keen of hearing, and that though many expect a wizard to be cynical, I preferred to be sensible; I even confessed, almost in passing, that I could write poems. Asked about instinct and perception, I said I tried simply to observe and draw conclusions from what I saw, hoping less to foresee the future or recall the past than to live in the present. The queen noted that though my hair had begun to grey my mind might yet hold other talents, to which I admitted a fondness for mathematics—tortuous perhaps, but a most gratifying puzzle.

At last, as the evening drew late, she spoke with quiet authority: “Very well. I declare thee, Antonio, and thee, Chevalier, to be my Lore Seekers. Bound by whatever uncertain fate has brought you together through the streets of this city, you shall dwell in Chevalier’s cottage and remain under my protection. Thou shalt serve as mathemagician, and thou as knight.” Then, naming herself Calafia III, she entrusted us with our first task—to resolve the quarrel among the birds gathered in her garden. Placing a book in my hands, she added, “To thee, Antonio, I grant The Poems of Farid Uddin Attar; and to thee, Chevalier, an enchanted flute.”

How Chevalier and I—and perhaps someone else—played Folk

What follows is the account I wrote that same evening in Chevalier’s cottage, after we had attempted to address the Conference of the Birds in the gardens of Queen Calafia the Third. I record it here as faithfully as memory allows, though I must confess that during the affair a most curious phenomenon occurred: at several moments an ethereal interface seemed to rise from the pages of the book FOLK, as though the rules themselves wished to whisper their procedures into the world.

Step 1: The Basic Conversation and Simple Actions

The game began as a conversation between Queen Calafia and ourselves, the Lore Seekers. We stood in the lapis-lazuli courtyard while parrots, ibises, and strange silver-winged hawks argued so fiercely that the garden sounded like a market in riot. The Queen watched us expectantly. I held the Poems of Farid Uddin Attar, while Chevalier kept the enchanted flute at his side. I proposed to walk calmly to the centre of the garden and observe which birds were leading the quarrel. At that moment the book stirred faintly in my hands, and a cloudy interface appeared, quoting its instructions in an otherworldly voice: “When an action is simple, plausible, and unopposed, the Lore Keeper may allow it to succeed without any roll.” The Queen nodded—for I understood she was the Lore Keeper—and so I crossed the courtyard unhindered, studying the birds more closely.

Step 2: Step 2: Rolling Dice (Uncertain Outcomes)

I attempted to use my mathematical mind to find order in the chaotic flutter. Perhaps their flight traced a pattern; perhaps their quarrel followed a hidden geometric language. As the thought formed, the pale interface opened again before my eyes, its letters drifting like fog: “To determine uncertain outcomes, assemble a pool of dice. One die for being Human, one for a fitting Trait, and one for a relevant Profession. Roll them together; the highest die determines the result.”

Within that mist three dice appeared: 1d6 for being Human, 1d6 for the Trait Sensible (Mind Pillar), and 1d6 for the Profession Mathemagician. The highest die showed a six. The Queen smiled faintly, and the disembodied voice revealed a first Hint; the birds were not quarrelling at random but circling three nesting places arranged like the corners of a triangle. “These nests form what might be called a House of Birth of the Simurgh .”—the voice whispered to my ears.

Step 3: Helping Others and Partial Success

Chevalier then tried to calm the largest hawk with his flute. I assisted by opening Attar’s book at random and singing:

"The Garden underneath my Music rolls. The long, long Morns that mourn the Rose away I sit in silence, and on Anguish prey: But the first Air which the New Year shall breathe."

As I sang, the mist-like interface appeared again and explained in its detached tone: “Another character may assist an action by describing how they help. If the Lore Keeper agrees, add one die to the acting character’s pool.”

Chevalier’s dice gathered within the cloudy interface: 1d6 for being Human, 1d6 for the Background Keeper of Swans, and 1d6 from Antonio’s help. The highest die showed a four. The letters shimmered: “A Partial Success means the action works, but introduces a complication.”

As the hawk felt silent and snatchesd Chevalier’s hat, a silver feather felt by the edge of a fountain, enclosed by the three nests; seeing it, the otherworldly voices recalled a cryptic second Hint: "He who lives by a king’s favour may lose it with a single mistake". Chevalier shared that knowledge with me, and I realised that among these birds there is one that fears losing its place by the king’s side. And we briefly discussed the possibility that many fear not bearing the crown of the birds, while many others fear the crown itself. In that sense, they were cowards, each in their own way.

Step 4: Risky Situations and Conditions (Failure)

The birds suddenly swarmed, beating the air with furious wings. I attempted to scramble up a lime-washed wall to reach a high ledge and glimpse a hidden treasure—a hoopoe golden egg, perhaps a hint. The interface intervened again: “When a situation is Risky, the Lore Keeper subtracts the highest die from your pool.”

My pool appeared: 1d6 (Human) and 1d6 (Trait: Slender). The roll showed 5 and 2; the five vanished, leaving the two. The result was a failure. Although the hoopoee golden egg with written inscriptions was safe on my hands, I slipped from the wall and fell awkwardly to the ground. The interface reminded me of the obvious—that my ankle had twisted—and until it healed, I could no longer rely upon my body traits. Being slender with a twisted ankle is not helpful at all.

Step 5: Emergency Resource

The birds then prepared to dive-bomb us. Chevalier and I invoked another rule, sacrificing our empty equipment slots. The interface acknowledged our decision: “Players may spend an unused Equipment slot to introduce an Emergency Resource into the fiction.”

Thus Chevalier suddenly remembered a handful of Enchanted Swan Feed the Queen had given him earlier. He scattered it across the stones, and the birds descended upon it at once, granting us a moment to regroup—no roll was required—to read the inscription of the hoopoe golden egg:

"I am the mirror in which my sun reflects those who look into it and see their bodies and souls entire… For what you truly seek is me within you and you within me."

Step 6: Scenario Resolution (The Final Move)

By then we had gathered three Hints. First, the birds fought over a crown hidden in the fountain. Second, not all the birds were claiming the throne and many others were not proper rulers; and the inscription suggested they required a leader.

We chose the Ritual Approach to resolve the affair. Chevalier played the Song of the Phoenix while I invoked an spell called Control & Find to look for such lines among the Poems of Attar, just beside the fountain, inviting the birds to look into its waters.

Thus we gathered the final pool; 3d6 for the Hints, 1d6 from Chevalier’s Trait Brave, and 1d6 from my Trait Perceptive—5d6 in total. The highest result was 6. The ritual succeeded. The birds accepted a new King of Birds, though not a majestic bird we had understood. Instead, a modest hoopoe approached the fountain merely to drink; seeing its reflection in the water, it tilted its neck and regarded us calmly, as if it alone had grasped the meaning of the egg’s inscription—that the Simurg was not a creature to be found, but a reflection of oneself. The quarrel faded at once, and peace returned to the garden of Queen Calafia without the slightest harm to her plants, and we departed with a valuable learned lesson for our Sense Pillar, and my twisted ankle.

To be a Lore Seeker is to be an artist.

As we sat in the fading light near the Mercado de Santa Catalina, the denim-textured book of FOLK resting between us, Chevalier grew uncharacteristically quiet. He looked at the bustling market, then back at me. "Antonio," he began, "sometimes I fear that the rituals we perform—the courtly greetings, the guard at the swan-pens—have become merely form, stripped of the inner reality they once carried. Is our magic just a dead tradition?" I thought of the "sensible" path I had claimed to follow and the way the Queen had named us Lore Seekers. "A ritual must be kept alive, Chevalier," I replied, tracing the glyph on the cover of the tome. "It is fascinating to see how myths transform. When the people of the Mississippi moved to the plains and found the horse, their mythology shifted from vegetation to the buffalo. They didn't just repeat old words; they allowed the environment to shape the story."

"So they responded to their world?" Chevalier asked, his interest piqued. "Exactly," I said. "We handle traditions from a different millennium, but they must assimilate the qualities of our culture and the new things that are possible in this island of Calafia. If we do not, the myth dies. And the only people who can keep it alive are artists of one kind or another."

"Artists?" Chevalier raised an eyebrow, looking at his enchanted flute. "The artist's function is the mythologisation of the environment and the world," I explained, realising that our new roles as Lore Seekers were no different. "In earlier days, the mythmakers were the ones who drew the paintings on the cave walls and performed the rituals. They were the ones whose ears were open to the song of the universe."

Chevalier smiled, picking up the book. "Artists... being the poet, the musician, the author, writer, and... the players?"

"Si, eso es," I replied. I realised then that Folk was a game, a pre-cultural artifact in a cultural society, a collaborative conversation where we, as players, built upon public dreams, inspired by private myths. By gathering Hints and performing the final scenario Resolution, we weren't just solving mysteries; we were the mythmakers of our day, keeping the ritual alive in the heart of Calafia.

Those who sought a keeper.

"Just, a last question, Chevalier" I dared to ask. "If the Queen Calafia was a character of these lands... Who was the Lore Keeper?" Chevalier then stood up, his silhouette sharp against the lapis-lazuli sky of the falling evening. He looked down at me, and for a moment, the exaggerated courtesy of our game vanished. "The Lore Keeper?" he mused, "If the Queen was a character, then the Keeper was something that created her throne and her garden. The Lore Keeper is the one who knows that the center of the world is not right where you are sitting, but everywhere, and that every hint we find is but a fragment of his own private myth that shares with us." He turned back to me, his eyes flashing with a sudden, terrifying clarity. "The question isn't who is the Lore Keeper... Antonio... the question is, what happens to us when the Lore Keeper finally decides to stop speaking?" And then, two short, sharp, and high-pitched noises followed.

Cyberspace Paths

Folk (Camilla Zamboni, 2024) To the loving memory of Davide Ragona

The Played Myth is inspired by The Conference of the Birds by Sufi poet Farid ud-Din Attar

The last two sections take several notes on Joseph Campbell's interviews by Bill Moyers. Specifically, The First Storytellers and Myths To Live By.