[According to Asjhic's companions, during an expedition into Parlainth on the 3rd of Riag, he ventured too near the dreaded fountain in the heart of Parlainth, temporarily losing his mind. The insanity is clear in the writing itself, though gradually a pattern develops until it turns into nothing short of a breathtakingly described near-epic legend told in an exquisite way. It is my postulation that ancestral spirits of a forgotten clan of an unknown Namegiver race possessed this adept's mind while he was "away", so to speak… the resulting verse is one of the best I have ever heard, and it certainly surpasses my own by a fair amount. Perhaps this is what my mentor refers to as a Ghost Song? – C.H.]
1100TH
Ugra'na Ahsle'bar, may the soul of the furious wizard lie in peace on the deathbed of luminous flowers that is never in his keep of doom – an ominous creature indeed is lurking over the shadow of the pond, if I shall be so bold as to request your highness to move the perfect visage if you may know it as well as I do not see the truth behind the facade of this immense Bashtakhian salut of arms in barbarian batallions alone could raise a thousand dinars of orkish mead? After the life is afterlife and we may as well learn to live with the death die with the life lie with the life die with the dice cheer with the chorus voluptuos maidens Throalic ale and dance dance dance merry go round and round and round and round and round and round and round they go as the stopping is nowhere and the rass is everythere and the waiter is blueish of wedding and we ding ding dings signs telling of the war that is approaching a-p-r-encroaching upon us in miserable solitude. From the motion of the palpable ethereal comes forth the urge of ages, from the love of the lost sands we slip forward to raise the cattle, from the ship of a hundred dreams and doom we sing of near circles, from the din of the quiet minions we think of dust and tomes as petals rising into the golden night.
Pachoo…. Pachoo!!! The war is a-coming!!! Speaking of war, where are famine and pestilence? Long have I been waiting for them to come up-ANDAL! Where did this come from?! A small one and a big one and the hammeRTWANGGGG!!! There is the cause for much rejoicing, the battle is won wonder wondering wonderful wonderfully stupefyingly busy I would seem to sit so and seethe so I guess my guess is that this is all too short for me.
Fish blossoms at falltime! Ah, to see the old village again, T'cherkassa asla amotla efr'iam, chai'da embraakil tsellok'a nefthe-mian, ajikle, ajikle's. [A small river-town down by the brook's delta(?), a child playing with fish-dung-covered sapling reeds, blue, blue – C.H.] Only four hundred years from now, and all so changed, so swept away like the tide sweeps the Shivoam sands deeper into the indigo depths of the Aras… And in that time, who shall remember us in thought or song, in laughter or dance, Dance, DANCE, the river-sister, the fire-brothers watch over you and will keep some of your memories if you cannot… but what of the forgotten ones? I shall keep them, I shall. Keep them, I shall. Shall I keep them? Them….? Why keep them? Who they are, I ask. Who? Hoo hoo!!! Daisies, nothing but daisies make me languid and long. I shall keep them not, I shall tell them all. All shall hear about all they know and do not, wars and cycle and magic and hope to die may light strike not my eyes again if I'm harming a fly.
But why tarry, marry? Prithee, let us begin, yes yes us all begin. Warm up the flute and fiddle and be joyful, you, in the middle! Sharpen the tongue and sing us a song and pray do not make us fall asleep, the bank too steep and stepped in wine and blood and song so long the day and time is wrong.
All out of lucky me, I'll sing with thee
and thee with all shall bring the hall
down on the heads
in burning beds
of time and ages
so sublime.
What shall we do? But move along, and do begin.
For our's the song and you're between
the columns and the road carries you on
and on on
on us you sing
yes yes yes sing
swing?! a-Ling
sssssssssing!!!!!!!!!!!
To life us bring..
Taslikkia' Cerra Kelline'a'l
[The Spirit of the Crimson(?) Knight – C.H.]
From immemorial times we hail
From storms our tombstones slippery
None shall recall the time when we
Clad in great arms and shining mail
Carved out a place in history
None shall remember any name,
Of us no face, no song remains;
And no apostle of our fame
With banners colored like the flame
Who will undo the work of rains.
But of the Crimson Seven then
We'll tell – a blink, a glimpse, a gaze
Into this story will again
Give sign for those who still retain
A spark of the gigantic blaze.
Many years ago, in a land far, far away,
there lived a bunny rabbit. And he was tall
and handsome and strong, yeah, like
a biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig wooly chicken!!!
Hungry, fishy fish?
Shhh… I must take hold of myself.
Is it my shelf at all?
I will I will
Curses!
Foiled again!
As I was saying….
Many years ago, in a faraway land
A race of humans proud and free –
Nothing withstood their strength of hand
Nothing their mind won't understand
But for the cause of their calamity
Without the trumpet's warning cry
Without a time to take to arms
A deathly wind came from on high
A third were dead without a sigh
And more succumbed to evil charms
Out of the wind a man appeared
(Or what resembled human form)
He wore an armor with blood smeared
and wrathful countenance much feared
and wretched smile which always leered
What color was his mighty beard?
I betcha it was Verjigorm.
Shut up, I will. Yes, yesssss.
And after him some hundred more
Monstrosities of any kind
With claws and eyes and tails galore
Like waves came rolling on our shore
And death and darkness close behind
The folk did make a valiant stand
But steadily their numbers grew
And none could give a helping hand
Until together in the land
were left but seven – less than few.
Shir'jam, a man of greatest skill
Which always lept into a fight,
Was first to wound and first to kill,
And did possess the strongest will
Together with his axe's might.
Arigna was his sister sweet
His only love and sole delight
She wove illusion as a sheet
Around herself and so did beat
The darkness with the force of light.
Jerin'ya with her golden flute
Who always heard the poor man's plight
And never stood around like mute
But singing song and strumming lute
She would defend the people's right.
Kurleann Shimbor Jaspertone
Was too no ordinary wight
His magic arts so brightly shone
That he could turn a mighty stone
To merely mud within his sight.
Andire Cherave was black,
But in her heart she bore no blight
Valor and means she didn't lack
The nether helped her to attack
Her foes, to make them die of fright.
Enther was never short of breath
His steady aim and arrows' flight
Would speed the target to its death
As he would run the length and breadth
Of th'battlefield, his laughter bright.
Taslikk "the quiet" was the last
He couldn't bear the smallest slight
Because of wrongs done in the past
He could creep silently on Bast
[An ancient master of stealth, perhaps? –C.H.]
And slit her throat in dead of night.
Of all the Seven it was him
Whom all the Passions blessed in turn
His face did see the sun's last beam
While th'others, under moonlight's gleam
Lay all around, and blood did churn.
Of strife and fire, steel and blood
Their life was full up to its brim
These heroes barely withstood this flood
In monster entrails almost clad
And choking, as they had to swim.
[Now THIS is gory. And they call Orks savage? –C.H.]
Shir'jam was quick to jump and act
And strike the blackest monster's head
Though half-dead it had made a pact
Which did its dreadful price exact –
Arigna cried out, falling dead.
The warrior with grief so sick
Attacked the thing with furious blows
But it just cackled – Shirjam's shriek
Ten miles down th'bloody creek
In which to sea Arigna's body flows
Unsettled but a pack of crows.
Jerin'ya to her comrades' aid
Did haste – and not a whit too late –
The darkest things around him made
Him choke and scream insthe shade
Of th'evil one as she played bait.
She sang of heroes from the years
When grass was green and sun was high
Her song rang true and chased the tears
Her melody cleansed out the fears
(They say the heard the Horror sigh!)
When Kurleann came to the fray
His healing magics he begun
Perchance he thought they'd save the day
(They did, they did! Away, away!)
as evil shades blot out the sun.
Andire cried a dreadful cry
And ceased from calling spirit friends
And pointed at the thing above
All looked up – 'twas no dove
But end of hope, the end of ends.
As Enther took a steady aim
Undaunted by the hopeless state
His arrow flew, and not to maim,
But killed outright the hideous shame
The monster died, but all too late.
Kurleann tried to sway the cloud
But it was all to no avail
The dead Andire called from shroud
The souls of heroes great and proud
Clad in remains of rotten mail
Fell back, went down under the hail.
Enther could not outrun the storm
Jerin'ya's music could not stop;
A deadly thing! A single drop
Into the skin would like a worm
Dig and all shape and form
Were melted in a single 'plop!'
And buried under heaps of foes
Shir'jam would never see again
No good or bad, no weals or woes
As he died painfully in throes
In choking fits under the foul rain.
But in the shadows magic wove
The quiet one did bide his time
And through this all he did not move
Even as his secret dark-haired love
Was sent to death right in her prime.
But as the rain of worms did end
He found out that he must defeat
A monstrous mass of claws that rend
And arms that iron cloth-like bend
For them the worms were only meat
And killing him – a simple feat.
Taslikk his arms against the best
Took, and his mission did begin;
His heart beat fiercely in his chest
His song rang clearer than the rest
His sword's swift strokes and deadly sheen
Carved him some victories at first
But they were few and far between
His heart, though strong, did almost burst
His mouth was dry and parched with thirst
And so he fell, last of his kin.
His bones lay drying in the sun
His flesh lay rotting in the breeze
The mound he lies in seagulls shun
And cry in defiance of the one
Whose fall did haste the winter freeze.
So lay the mighty heroes down
No marble statue or white shroud
Kept them a company at death
Their armor was their burial gown
Their monument a greying cloud
Their epitaph a zephyr's breath
With them so lay the final hope
Of people that so long ago
Were proud and strong and brave of heart
And of their deeds th'entire scope
Though kingdoms come and ages go
No mortal soul can be a part
Forever shall their bones cry out
In mornings bleak and autumns grey
Five fathoms deep below the land
Comes up a neverceasing shout
From mouths entombed in rock and clay
Where none can reach with mortal hand
But of these ancient folk of old
If but one segment could be found
Or if this story can be told
By one who lives above the ground
Then will the spirits long at rest
Revive all that is true and best
And strive and rise out of the cold
To aid the one that is so bold
To call them from their burial mound –
To him they'll lend their strength and might
To him they'll give the rule of night
In him they'll spark truth's truest light
In him they'll reap the seeds of right
With him they'll end th'eternal blight
With him they'll build a future bright
For all to see, in plain clear sight
That, Passions willing, forever might
Abide the spirit of the Crimson Knight.
. . .. . . .. . .. … .. . . …… . . . . .
There it ends, for such is the truth of the thing.
Laba-laba, kish?
Must sleepy sleep, for bonny sweet Robin is all my joy…