Random Works from Random People

[mozenwrathe]

*There are tales of a group of elven archers and crossbow users that had a record of kills kept on a mithril tablet. It is unsure if the story itself is true, but the legend persists. A few rather bloodthirsty forest archers of both human and elven descent have called themselves the Daggers of the Bronze Etching. Using a bronze dagger to keep tally, each one of them has at least twenty bodies to their name. Their leader is unknown, but what can be assured is that they originated close one of the coastal cities. Which would explain why some of their victims have the remains of fish stew shoved in their mouths...*

Things You Throw Away
by Ekspiesche Mossberg, crossbowman (pronounced X-P-S)

paying it forward
the new balance of life and loss
my shaft flies into the heart
of yet another darting vermin
those that call themselves orcs
but all others have lesser names
for wretches of pea and olive shades
only good for slaying and beheading
watching their ichor leak from their wounds
slumping to the forest floor slowly
and will nature itself claim their bodies
whatever riches they coveted
absconded with before I meld
back into the shrubbery I left behind
where none of their filthy kind
shall track me without being at peril

before my own time to burn
comes before my eyes unwillingly
will I know the taste of blood and bile
my hunger for vengeance against
those of so many kinds
races born of abomination and fear
allows me to rise in the morning fresh
and sleep all too comfortably at night
for when my times reverse
and occasion raises for me to hunt
shall the gnawing deep inside me
wrap itself around my fingers
giving my back extra strength to carry
and my legs slightly more speed
for the death I bring to ogres and goblins
is nothing but delayed justice and peace
every breath I steal from their chests
is a kiss to the soul of a newborn child
and my hands are covered in blood
my soul drenched in furious wisdom
while my lips remain in smirk's parody
cruel laughter bubbling in my heart

must I contact those who summoned me
raising me from gutter trash discard
to the instrument of endings am I now
a harp who sings harmony of hatred
lyre that leaves its audience lifeless
my crossbow crafted by my own hands
is both my cage and my freedom
ever binding me to this path I walk
yet severing my ties with civil bondage
for am I able to take as I will and want
as though I was chosen of Aden'Ver
but shall I never betray She Who Gives All
for is it Gaea Herself who blesses me
allowing me to savour all things hers
until do I go to see her alone at long last

[mozenwrathe]

*Some people just don't take no for an answer. Other people refuse to accept a yes. And there are those who just don't want to hear anything at all. Those are the ones that people should worry about a little more. Some of them are half crazy. Some of them are just a little bit insane. Of course, it is when they start pulling out enchanted coins that explode when they hit something is when you realize that you should have left well enough alone... or just plain out left.*

Must Be Eligible For At Least One
by Ne'Tazzi Sngiwazzi, chirot healer of Selahw

my heart burns so brightly this night
with the love for my Goddess now
as She has not forsaken me
while I am far and forever away
from those whom I was once closest
needing to make a new family for myself
in this place where land is only hilly
not with moutains high and rivers low
for is this nothing like what was home
but shall it come my place of rest
where Sheara's name be spread with patience
through my lips and my voice
will Her Passion and Her Promise both
be cast unto the ears of those unwary
and that do not yet understand and believe

my time is not like the elves
who live for many moons and seasons
but shall my heart not waver from this
a most sacred task entrusted to me
to give these who need it most
what they for now desire least
a sense of purpose in Sheara's divine plan
for though not all were made by Her
shall all who live under sky and cloud
know that She has something for everyone
whom is not one of the Betrayers
or who is no less such by their actions
turning against those of leathery wing
with their covetous gaze against one another
lecherous pride driving them to madness

every night do I still bear the scars within
sobbing terrors of my ordeal from my own
for is it still fresh within my heart
how those who were once most trusted
showed themselves to be corrupted by
what were undoubtedly Feathered Thoughts
yet though Sheara Herself wills me to forgive them
as their trespasses were considered just and good
for it sent me to where She Knows am I needed
my bleeding and broken heart daren't even
as whenever I hear wings overhead
do I still know anguished moments of terror
with tears in my eyes looking fearfully skyward
and until such time that horror no longer
holds more grip upon me than dirt on shoulders
will my tongue never speak their names
as anything less than Kiroan in disguise

[mozenwrathe]

*Something many forget about the minotaur race is that every last one of them has the potential to lose control in battle. What most do not realize, however, is that "battle" can be a very subjective term indeed. After all, what is battle if not a competition against a certain standard? Whether that standard be a preset time, a level of ability, or a physical opponent, to battle something or someone means different things to different people.*

And After The Regular, Will Such Still Be Good
by Alimah Pour'ahne of the Bronze Shield-wisent Clan

do I remember well how he cheated and lied
telling one thing to one woman
while right around the temple's doors
cupping an available male slowly
whispering the same taunting words
in their soft and flickering ear
smiling all the while with his lips
eyes showing nothing but coldness
yet was he the one chosen as Champion
to personify all of my clan's greatness
for was he none other than a brother
to she who saw fates with her fingers

his actions were nothing less than expected
for none would dare stop his rampage
as he never stooped so low as to rape
not even the slaves of the chieftain
instead allowing them to come to him
almost begging to be impaled
taken over and again by his lusts
until was he sated with their bodies
leaving them covered in his maleness
writhing still as they moaned his name
yet would never he reach for my family
as would he have been cut down with words
if not fierce backhand from my mother

could even now I remember his stance
before setting off for the Challenges
wearing naught but the best armor
of leathers cured and enchanted
with with runes most ancient and pure
sweat of artisan and blood of crafter
both poured into every piece there
precious stone dusts massaged in
then lacquered over to give it shimmer
such beauty and power woven into one
given to one I could not possibly respect
but did I sing my best for him
as he walked away into the sunrise
along with his two seconds
both of them his lust-struck allies
from when was he much younger

was it a week before his return
carried by the seconds on stretcher
broken beyond the belief of the clan
yet holding the valecite tipped spear
having proven his worth in the Challenge
was he given prize most valued by him
yet his own actions from ages before
shown now to be his fated undoing
as those he had used before callously
casting them away like seeds from fruit
had chosen his returning path
to visit upon his body vengeance
was he not one whose spirit itself
had traveled to meet revered ancestors
but could he no longer move or speak
only breathe barely and hold his prize

those who had been vicious to me before
in their snide words about my own skill
as singer and warrior for my youthfulness
now demanded as one I be handmaiden
to those set on healing his broken form
so did I for first time in many moons
spend time as a washer and tender
in tent of those who gave back life slowly
prayers from shaman sage and saddened
touch from the healer's gentle hands
weaving together mind and muscle both
and I who could do nothing but sing
as my spear and sword were worthless
but did both which were bought from others
slowly decay as offering to the gods
until I was weaponless once more
and he who had been battered and broken
rose from his mat of straw and reeds
once more the male he used to be
unrepentant in his state of serenity
leaning over to fondle the shaman
kissing the healer upon the throat

was I filled with rage and scorn
seeing him act no different than before
so did I rise to my feet slowly
turning my back upon his lustful ways
yet in the midst of his return to form
did he stop himself not so easily
but long enough to wish me well
upon a journey that I was yet to take
for the sleeping state he had been in
had given him chance to Dream widely
seeing things that were in my own future
which I was yet to know about for years
did I thank him quietly and with respect
before taking my leave at long last
the groans of pleasure rising behind me
causing me to shiver with annoyance

do I remember well how he cheated and lied
yet that was only for his acts of passion
wanting to remain as close to honourable
in every other way the tribe truly cared for
as my clan was a smaller one than many
seeking to ever improve its standing
and through him being a Champion
were we able to rise ever so much
over those who had loved to rival us
keeping us subjected to their disrespect
until there was no true way to deny
our clan had bettered itself in such fashion
could they never be able to discredit us
without ruining their own mouths with deceit

[mozenwrathe]

*To be quite honest, none is absolutely certain if Zbigniew the Mead-tongued, or in fact any of his tribe has been through Nanthalion within the past five years. Some insist that the tribe became extinct after a war against one of the dark elven Houses of that particular region. Others say they migrated far south and merged with a dying desert tribe of nomads. A third option insists the Leopard Glacier tribe was kidnapped as a whole by a dragon to serve her whims and will. Rumour flies fast and thick in Adenfort and Valencia's regions both, but the truth has yet to be discerned.*

With The Ending Of Another's Beginning
by Zbigniew the Mead-tongued, bard and lorekeeper of the Leopard Glacier tribe

parched throat have I
so give me some drink
something rich and dark
so I know no longer have to think
my eyes are dim this day
even though the sun shines high
for my heart remains low
as my hopes today will die
the woman that I loved
with all my heart and spirit
shall be married to blood foe
my ears cannot bear to hear it
yet shall I be there in body
my blood shed over clan's stones
to give my oath to the chieftain
shall I seek to break no bones
known I not for ignoring summons
or shredding oath out of passion
yet this day do I wish myself elsewhere
to bear out my misery in fashion

have I lost what I thought won
for have I not wealth or fame
all I bear upon my bronzed chest
is the runes that make up my name
and will those nary be enough
to match against a hunter's skill
such a prize this woman be
that he brought in his largest kill
stag that song was sung for thrice
legendary in the forest high
brought down by the stalker's spear
catching him neatly through the side
without excuse is chieftain's choice
to allow such event to be
though grievous insult was done
when my foe did ask just for me

am I to be the lead teller of tales
proclaiming wide to our tribe his vain glories
speaking of his efforts to ancestors
singing nothing less than best of my stories
and am I not allowed to refuse
for such would dismay and dishonour
my chieftain's name and our shaman's pride
to give this duty to some yawner
a voice such as mine has he demanded
knowing that I would love nothing more
than to plunge my spear through his tent
and call him out as cowardly whore
and through this all does she not know
the woman whom I loved so great
how I wish her naught but the best
except not with this man I do hate

so shall my dry mouth be made wet again
with best wine or beer that you possess
for will I be nothing less than in my cups
as I stand before all and confess
not of my passion for she who is
the most beautiful woman have I ever seen
but the best of that man's feats
from back when his teeth were still green
carrying my song and tale from his younger days
and his challenging of a wolf to live
with naught more than dagger and burning stick
the creature now more pet than raging captive
to his daring against an enraged boar
which wanted to gore out his heart
and shall I do this all with my broadest voice
while inside my spirit is torn apart

[mozenwrathe]

*Some days, it just doesn't serve to get out of bed. Other days, it's just not wise to get into bed. Normally it depends on the weather, and how many potential mates you have aggravated the night before. Of course, when you live the life of a smuggler and not a snuggler, this is just part of the job you do. Thankfully for her, Neelkamala has never needed to move illegal goods through the fiefdoms of the land. She simply brings herself and the tales within her heart.*

R.O.P.E. (Remembering Only Pleasant Events)
by Neelkamala D'aari, fatesinger of the Platinum Feather Tribe

no parchment could survive these trails
upon wish my feet stride and rest
but shall what I have learned follow me
to my death and into hearts of others
for shall I not keep it to my own self
and hoard my knowledge like dragon's gold
instead will I give it up like rain
to bless my spiritual sisters and brothers

this voice of mine is my gift to give
sharing what I have seen and felt to all
understanding in time it will grow quiet
leaving only memories and hopes within
though it is more than song and tale I bring
as what skills have I gained will I share
whether it be weaving or writing or pottery
making sure to favour more than my kin

names of friends I have lost number greatly
for not all will suffer these lands without strain
and my enemies have grown faint with time
as they reap the garden of their enmity sown
my ears remain clear as day I was blessed
with cries of sorrow and joy at once knotted
like lengths of rope coiled in a great lump
until are they untangled carefully on their own

this heart beats to its own wonderful rhythm
no drum nor lyre shall I be tied to forever
as true music is in the spirit first and last
harmony and melody in all things around
and if my blood weeps into the soil one day
giving rise to nation of artists of light
shall my death be something I welcome
like winter leaving my home snowbound

shall my legacy be something I will not know
for once I am gone will others take my place
creating new tales and revising older verses
to give generations after me heights to aspire
as those before my tribe stood before the moon
bestowed their wisdom through ballad and rhyme
shall those after my passing do the same
with grace and fury showing unblemished desire

[mozenwrathe]

*In Belariath, one has to wonder where the logic of the goblins has ever been truly a benefit for longer than a generation. For such a swift to act race, there are few times that anyone can recall them winning a full scale war against any other race. There is a reason for this: nobody is willing to admit goblins have actually won any large scale battles. That would mean the so-called greater races were not as great as they believed themselves. As well, goblins are notorious for not keeping accurate records of their conquests, for parchment is really good for lighting fires with on the march.*

Leaving The Room For The Night Without A Whisper
by Angha Simurgh, torian "'arrna'thoron," servant of Andronichus

my eyes are wide open though it is evening
with stars above shining into the room
one that hard earned mehrial has given me
just long enough to savour my prize at my side
one whom I have longed for greatly
while trudging through snows deep and bogs foul
flying whenever the weather allowed me
to carry out my services to my small clan

do I leave she whom I desired for long
in the blankets of angora wool she wove
her breathing so hauntingly sweet
would I be loathe to allow any other
to taste her most seductive lips as I would
yet can I be not so filled with avarice
as she is not mine to own as a slave or ring
even if would I be so daring
could I claim her as my own without worry
for is she besotted with my presence
in ways that no mere admiration describes

smartly though was her hair coiffed
now a tangled weave of locks I see
yet could she be none more beautiful
with such halo of hair surrounding such visage
my heart yearns to lay my body down
not to move from this place I am in
though duties calls with voice of doves
as two fae rest upon the sill
each of them with scroll in hand
whispering to each other softly

great sorrow and regret hangs over me
like scythe swinging high in fields of wheat
glistening from the winter's chill are they
so do I open the window slowly
beckoning both little things inside with caution
and from them do I take the parchments
reading each with rising rage and amusement
such grand summons have I never seen
yet could any other been chosen for this
knowing this was done to pull those together
whom have been determined to remain
aloft and apart like feathers in a whirlwind

pat I both fae on the head and scritch their chins
watching them purr to my touch like cats
knowing my heat gives them reason to stay
but reason for my current peace rises up
awakened by sound of footsteps in the room
her eyes finding mine and then the fae
scowling at me as she knows what this means
nodding only once more to the little messengers
do I go over to my darling tempest fair
kissing her deeply upon such soft and tempting lips
before without a word grabbing my garments
sliding them on in silence most deafening
leaving the scrolls for her to read and rage at
while through the window I depart into night sky

[mozenwrathe]

*A rather intrepid group, the Daggers of the Bronze Etching are. Not only have they waged a private war against "the damnable greenskins," they have made a killing of it - financially, not just figuratively. The rather morbid business of disposing of the bodies of many of their victims has been something they've worked on for the past generation or two. With druids and shaman on their side, have they managed to turn what would have been just corpses into cash... but one cannot discuss how they do it openly.*

Please Retain My Pride If You Are Refused
by by Ekspiesche Mossberg, crossbowman (pronounced X-P-S)

have I not seen a single ogre this day
despite knowing four lurk within this wood
each of them a separate menace in themselves
none of them knowing the other
for were they all warded here by farmers
those who till the land and give us our food
spirits of wholesome men and women both
who deserved not the ravishing and ravaging
of these marauders of thick skin and foul breath

my quiver is loaded with tainted shafts
not the tips for are they pig iron crafted and hammered
the lengths of wood themselves have I coated
with liquors from alchemists and apothecaries
everything that was considered waste by them
in order to ensure my prey knows suffering well
as what I am hunting is not rabbit or fox
something which has its place in nature's embrace
but those who dare believe themselves
my equal or even better than my friends and family
taking as they wish and leaving waste behind
befouling whatever they touch with glee and relish

shall every arrow I unleash this evening
have something soaked so far within it
even the scavengers of the soil itself will reject
the meat and bones left behind by my passing
yet will impoverished earth itself I walk over
in this forest whose trees are barren of leaves
not just from winter's withering caress
but the poorness of the soil from curse
swallow every last one of them whole gladly

understand only what I have heard them do
without reason and without warrant are they
for if they were truly worthy of respect
could they have fallen to one knee and begged
pledging service to those who toil and task
instead did they rape and pillage wantonly
razing what they could not claim for their own
leaving smoke and sorrow in their large footsteps
their pieces of pleasure provoking only pain
those whom they victimized shattered in spirit

and into the fog coated forests I stride
one arrow already in gloved fingers half notched
for moment one lumbering fool makes noise
shall I seek to pierce every part of them once
until are they only a mash of blood and poison
retrieving what arrows I can to brandish as prize
or better still to use upon another fell greenskin
for this night have I not been paid to take
all of this meandering monsters to task
as instead will this be my gift to the community
four wretched deaths of deadly wretches
so all around may sleep once again without fear

[mozenwrathe]

*There is none who would dare say the lorekeeper of the Leopard Glacier tribe was an idle man. Though he was never handfasted, there are over a dozen children attributed to him throughout the reaches of the Ilfiran Empire. Half of them ended up joining the Leopard Glacier tribe to become soothsayers and talespinners like Zbigniew himself. Considering the women he bedded were mostly those who thought they had nothing, the one known as "the mead-tongued" also has heavy enough coinpurses when the moment warranted. Not one of those women found themselves short of mehrial for long. Perhaps that is why he rarely had money of his own...?*

Under This Scarlet Sky, Is Grave Mercy Given
written by Zbigniew the Mead-tongued, bard and lorekeeper of the Leopard Glacier tribe

Have I once before met someone on a path so long and twisted, could they never see the end of it. I forgot what the woman's name was, but I could always remember her blade. It was a thing of beauty, much like the woman who wielded it. The sword itself was crystal, marking her a paladin. One of the "warriors of faith" for her goddess, Sernaka. Though to recall her vividly is to remember what marked her as so different from other women. To begin with, was she completely bald upon her head... and much further down below. (Yes, I was quite pleased to find out that for myself.) Instead of hair, were there runes and glyphs of the dwarven clan of Granitespear on her head. Her arms as well were gifted with many tattoos that were done with mithril ink. All of them had meaning, but none of them to one that was not of the dwarven people. Did she stand half a head taller than myself, with skin far more tanned than my own. And here I had just gone through a rather interesting summer. Her body had scars upon it, and not the ritualistic kind. She had fought and lost before, yet bore her marks more proudly than any peacock held their feathers high.

How a woman like herself came into the world was about as strange as her choice of goddess. Though the tale itself would be hers to tell if she still lives. As this was more than twenty years ago, could I not know for certain, especially as I lost track of her only weeks after I met her a third time. I would have to believe she does, for not only did she have a sword that seemed to be grown from topaz and garnet, she had yet another that was like sapphire and quartz. She seemed to be one forever wandering, looking for the next adventure and next lover to bed. She clearly had an appetite for rousted and rampant rutting as great as any member of the Ishtarian faith, yet scorned most of them for their soft ways. More than one of them had apparently tried to take her as a concubine, and grown mortally offended when she brushed them off for being too frail and weak for her tastes in both men and women. More than one duel had she ended by plunging one of her blades through their stomachs or arms. Never did she try to slay one of those from the Ishtarian faith (or that of a dark elven goddess, Tilresh). Those she always tried to leave alive so that Lust in all of Her Personifications could still willfully cast Her Shadow upon the land. Others, however, was she not so merciful with.

A shame and a sorrow I cannot remember what the woman's name was. I know it was not something one would expect of a daughter of The Tribes or the dwarven nations. Were it something like Amahdy or Olayinka, could it still flow well from my tongue. Perhaps by now she had settled down and raised family of her own. I have never truly stayed long in any one place to grow roots and set out branches. She was much like me in that respect. Where I sought to better my situation with my voice, did she use her body. And what a body it was, with a figure so statuesque, would any avatar of my ancestors dare to try lay claim to her for themselves. Even now, does my mouth water slightly when I remember the heat of her skin when pressed against my own. Could I do naught more but keep pace with her when she ran or when she sought to lay claim to what was under my leather and wool vestments. It was not as if I was eager to deny her anything intimate at the time. For that was during a most bitter breaking of my heart and my desires that I first met her. She was there when I needed most was a warm body and a stalwart traveling companion. Did we mesh well, two outsiders from town to town together in one inn room or quickly set up tent.

With storms over my head, do I recall the first time we met, she and I. With rains around us and a fire within the town we both just walked into, did we find ourselves pitching in together to put out a terrible blaze that had consumed an entire homestead. Did the livestock and people within survive, but what had been their home and hearth was char and rubble. Those of the townsfolk were shocked to see outsiders even lifting a finger to aid them, which earned us both a free room for one night and free food for two nights. Getting drunk together, I found myself invited to her room that evening. It was a long night indeed in many ways, for while I was trying my best to forget, was she doing her "worst" to remember. Something that transpired for her that had stripped much of her memories from her. And by indulging herself in my body and passions, could she spark the flame of recollection within her blood. One could easily guess I was far from stubborn about taking care of her needs, for my wants would be sated in her sex and her seductive self-reliance. I do recall waking up the next day and realizing it was the late afternoon. To be fair, I could not for the life of me even remember the name of the town, so unimportant was it to my heart and my head. (The drinking we had done did not help matters either.) The next night was more of the same, as was the third. Every afternoon, did we travel out to their public baths within the town, slaking our hunger for food on the way there, and our thirst for each other in the waters themselves.

My thoughts are still that she would recognize me now if she were to see me again, no matter what the years have done to the colour of my hair or the thickness of my thighs. I am far more like ashes in my locks now than an copperwood tree, but my braids are still long and strong. My eyes have not fallen prey to the ailments that have claimed so many others, and neither has my skin. Though am I no longer quite as robust as I was before, my arms can still hold a longsword as well as any member of my tribe. Every so often, do I see a woman or two that reminds me of her, but has never been quite the same. And yes, the one thing I remember quite well about the last night I saw her was the fact the horizon was a beautiful lavender and vermilion. Her kiss upon my lips showed she knew better and I this would be our last night together. What we did was make love and passion come alive that evening, with the stars overhead and the moon itself giving us blessing. In the morning, was she gone as if she had never been. And upon my lips was her name never heard again. Perhaps it was a gift or a curse from her Goddess, but would it bear me just a little more warmth at night to know her face and her body once more.

[mozenwrathe]

*Everyone in Valencia has a story. Some of them are more ornate than others. Most of them tend to end with "...and then I chose to remain here because it wasn't..." Something about the region attracts some of the more eclectic members of society, and yet they manage to harmonize themselves to a point that is more unifying than the Ilfiran capital, Nanthalion. What about this region that makes many those who settle there so protective about it? Perhaps it really is something in the water...*

Was I Not Born Wicked Under This Scarlet Moon
by Inwë Celebrindal, high elven jeweler in Valencia

and in this gloaming that I look out upon
from the balcony of the room I possess
for is the entire house in my lover's name
do I think about my arrival to this land
and what convinced me to stay within
even though I could have plied my trade
that which I had in my heart at first
or the one over the years have I learned
in any place across these lands

there are birds who sing so sweetly now
as the winter woes recede from the lands
leaving behind the jade and emerald greens
showing the rebirth of what is truly
Belariath's treasure in heart and spirit
yet am I no worshipper of Gaea Herself
to run into forests wide and frolic

blackened soot rises in the west
where I know well the blacksmiths there
ply trade until stars kiss the sky brightly
yet am I not so lax in my own ways
as when the dawn rises on the morrow
shall I already be gliding through these streets
robes around me like gossamer on trees
swiftly finding my way to the shop itself
to set my delicate fingers to labour again

night does not fall upon Valencia's mountains
as one light fades does another take its place
but the moon above does not glow in pearls
for this evening's blessing is like rose quartz
not a deep crimson as night of my birth
when all of that evening's welcoming into
this world that all life daren't share willfully
were said to be drenched in Aden'Ver's desires
yet have I remained untouched by bloodlust

am I not one to drink greatly of cruelty
or embrace halberd and hatchet blithely
for was I born better than base barbarian
with more propriety than puerile pixie
have I always sought for gracefulness in things
whenever I take my next step towards greatness
so will I never allow any the twilight's freedom
to stamp on my name with muddied boots
for was I not born wayward and worthless
like feral dogs in the back alleys fighting
am I far better than so very many
yet remain I humble enough not to gloat

[mozenwrathe]

*Adenfort is not known for being the friendliest city to visit. If one is going there, it is best to know well ahead of time what you are looking for. The more certain you are, the easier it is to get it and get out. Not that Adenfort actively shuns visitors, but it by no means is as "open" a city as Nanthalion... which is apparently how they like it. The city has a system that works from them. Learn the system, and you learn the city. Though it is high advisable if you are going to be there for long, to take a side trip to the village of Selahw. In Selahw, they are not quite as restrictive.*

T.E.N.D.E.R. (The Elegant Night Draws Endless Reverie)
by Ne'Tazzi Sngiwazzi, chirot healer of Selahw

when night rises and the dawn descends at last
shall those used to the evening's kiss awaken
and with them shall I pull myself from slumber
to find myself in Sheara's service once more
having never truly been abandoned by Her Love
my tears of sorrow have been turned to joy
scars upon my fragile skin now just slim memory
but when I dream shall I feel them caressed
by a lover whom these eyes have never seen

do I rarely see those of the fabled blood
ones with wings like eagles and swans
ever graceful with their motions at times
knowing all the while within their hearts
are they seeking to betray those around them
feeding upon the discord and distrust
smiling within whenever misfortune itself
creeps up to pull down another

have I never forgotten my lessons learned
at the knee of my revered teacher of faith
she who once spoke to me in soft whisper
telling me of my fate far away to come
yet my heart breaks whenever I think of her
remembering far too vividly of those
who in their merciless savagery
showed themselves to be just as wicked
as the feathered lovers of treason

am I unable to strike at them directly
for is my body too weak to endure such strife
and heart within my breast far too fearful
never have I been the warrior and challenger
she who seeks danger and defeats it
as my spirit has never sought out harm
instead wanting to soothe the ache of days
giving solace to those whom have lost
in this am I too soft of heart to be a warrior
so will I learn to fight in other ways

when night rises and the dawn descends at last
tingling within my temples will cease once more
for shall I know the breath of life flows through me
to be given as gift and blessing to those others
who will in time understand the plan Sheara has
for all those who live underneath the stars and sky
as in time will my words and whimsy wear away
at rock-covered hearts of those not anointed
leaving their true selves and spirits bared to Her
so Sheara's song can pierce their frivolous fears
leaving only a Believer of Her Wisdom behind

could I allow my heart to know unyielding fury
for those who mask themselves in sight of others
with supposed fairness of flesh and smoothness of skin
yet will such wrathful urges avail me no more
than agony to be visited upon by their wicked ways
as their eyes look upon me with ill-hidden lusts
fingers always gripping at their sides with desire
wanting to ravish my body and ravage my spirit
throwing me into chains of their spiteful slavery
wishing to sever me from Sheara's bountiful beauty

because of what I know I have yet to achieve
need I proceed with faith in heart and wings outstretched
but not too far as to give image of false pride
instead will they be slightly bent to know of my strength
for shall I take flight into skies deep in darkness
knowing no longer fear but hope through my being
as my goddess gives me wind under my wings
carrying me to where I will be needed most by others
able to bring the light of Sheara's goodness
and shine it to banish any tendrils of dismay and disease
giving back life and love to those who deserve it most

faith in She Who Gives Me Purpose will be my shield
actions I do in Sheara's glorious name my sword
shall I become her knight without gleaming armor
instead proving to all who look upon my presence
that the chirot are far more than what they've heard
bringing to their sight the brilliance of Her Name
into the ears of the unenlightened Her Wisdom I sing
doing all this in ways that are soft and alluring
like blankets over one who has fallen chill in winter
so all whom I encounter will have no other choice
but to embrace Sheara to their hearts like I have
casting away the shades over their eyes

when night rises and the dawn descends at last
will my duties only begin anew within this place
for unlike most who seek out only the day's blessing
my heart and spirit yearn for the night's grace
stars piercing and beautiful shining down upon me
every twinkle a prayer to be said in love and wonder

[mozenwrathe]

*The story between the chirot and the torian races is a long one, filled with battles, horrors, and tales to inspire. Of course, most of those used to dealing with one or both races tend to favour one side or the other. There are more than a few conspiracy theorists who believe the entire war between the pair was started by either the sithians or the dark elves. (Most would insist that would be a moriel thing to do.) However, no proof has been found by anyone to show such a thing was committed.*

Have I Keys For Them All
by Eglynie Jadvyga, chirot priestess of Sheara

within these chambers of the spirit
are there doors that lead to different fates
breaths of life that take the mundane
and raise them to the heights of a hero
giving them the will and the way to succeed
where most others would break their wings
shattering them against an unseen future
that smacks down the unwary and unwilling
leaving only those blessed by Sheara unscathed

my words are nothing less than that itself
phrases and parables to be heard and taken in
sentences to simmer within the stagnant mind
verses to violate the sleeping greatness within
and in the depths of my inspiration
shall those whom have heard my voice feel the call
Sheara beckoning them all home within Her Aura
urging them forward to raise Her Name higher
picking up sword and spear to carry forth Her Will

need I know nothing more than Sheara's Grace
for Her Glory shall bathe me like ocean of gold
shall my heart be ever refreshed by Her Wisdom
some would call me zealot in Her service
and for those I care naught for their words
as they know little of what it means to dedicate
willing have I ever been to sacrifice of myself
even if it would mean my own life to be lost
and these eyes are not blind to fortune's found
my ears never deafened by cries of chaos

know all those who dare defame Sheara's name
Her Vengeance will be thorough and complete
the deeds done against Her Chosen People
will all be punished with implacable justice
regardless of what gods blasphemers hide behind
and those of the glorious leather wing
will know their rightful place once more in this world
no longer to be mistaken as outcasts of society
but to be understood and given all due respects
for will Sheara's Song keen over all mountains
ringing out through valleys and plains
rippling through skies like tides in oceans deep
leaving no place for wretched feather-wings to hide

[mozenwrathe]

*There are always tales about how wolven go around raping and slaying members of "the lesser races." Elves, random humans, dwarves, and so on. It is not all that often that you hear of wolven telling of such tales. Mostly as they usually consider it beneath them to discuss what is not important to what is happening to others that is natural and expected. At least, this is the rationale behind the Platinum Bloodstreak Clan. For them, wolven terrorizing other races is merely keeping their fangs sharp for the real hunting: food. However, if you ask them what they think of ogres and trolls, you will here something else entirely...*

Yoke Broken And Slave Taken
by Wirameju, "Bael-blessed" wolven hunter of the Platinum Bloodstreak Clan.

Care I nothing for the "civilized" ways of the furless ones. They make me sick with the rules and laws, insisting that their weaknesses are their strengths, and must I abide by them. They who have slain more their their share of my kind, and then scream to the skies that some fool in the darkened heavens has given them the right to do such. Some long lost spirit they give lip service to like Chike or Raamiah. One of those or even their oh so revered Aden'Ver. Know I their mutterings and frothing fermentation that comes out their mouths as words. Hiding behind their steel and shield as if such gives true power to the blood and glory to the bold.

Care I nothing for the frigid whores they call their goddesses. Cold from their loftiness and whores from their lack of sense for anything but their own selfish ways. I speak of their goddess of lust Ishtar and that one charred and tarred goddess Kirva. Useless wastes of godflesh if I have ever heard of one before. They should know their place at the feet of Garn, licking his feet until they have them both cleaned properly. However, such is not to be at this moment for the land is still held by too many of the furless ones to be properly consecrated in the name of Garn himself. Then will all those who call themselves holy men and priestesses know for whom all goodness and true wisdom come from. Until that time, must I hold my tongue just long enough for those feckless and weak-minded willow tree whisperers to speak on behalf of my people... sort of.

Care I nothing for the midgets of muscle and the tiny tossers of smooth stones that exclaim themselves to be of a proper race. Are they no better than something that I would use to warm my thighs and spend my seed within when I am not seeking anything imperative . Some call it rape, but such is a lie. Rape is what those ruinous runts do to the insides of a mountain, carving where there is no need to place tool. Rape is what the little legged lackluster lemming-minded louts do to the hills, placing foolish excuses for tents within the mounds of earth or above it. Rape is their treatment of the earth and rivers, bathing in them with bodies covered in clothing still as if they had a second layer of skin, looking to rinse out their filth into the waters that The Great People drink. No, it is not rape when I use them and discard them for what they are. It is just the way of things.

Care I nothing for the elves. If you do not believe me, ask me the names of their gods. Will I tell you that all of them are named "Absolutely Nothing Of Importance." Yes, are they just as hopeless, hapless, and helpless as their human counterparts without tools of some sort in their hands. That, or their more famed crutch: magic. For all their so oft revered knowledge and wisdom, could they not stop some of their very own from going completely insane and daring to call themselves better than my kind at tracking through forests. What madness and misery must they have in their minds to call out such a lie. And then expecting all and sundry to believe it? Even more wretched worthlessness do they show. Their holes are for using by any wolven that lays claim to such, and that is all. Need they not even speak, for there is little they would tell one of The True And Chosen that was so important would they not give it willingly to their betters.

There is much I care nothing for amongst those that live within their stone homes and brick havens. Are most of them too frail and weak to know true living within the steppes or across the deeper timberlands. One mention of winter as you will see the shiver and whimper, demanding that the subject be changed. Cowards to face the elements without their artifice, so very many of them. And still to my face call they me "the savage," "the brute," "the monster." Such titles will I embrace if it pushes me far from their pudgy little bodies that squeal to be taken and tormented for my personal amusement. Know they nothing of what the truth, and do they wallow in their ignorance like pigs in mud. Nay, pigs have reason to do such things, for without it would they overheat and die. Making the pigs superior.

Interesting, indeed.

My attitude is not callousness but correctness. The natural ways of things dictate that my kind beat others into the ground and have their asses up in the air to be branded with our own special markings. There are few races who would dare challenge one of The Truly Chosen without any false claws in their hands or leathers on their body. Those individuals have I enough respect for to give them honourable demise if they dare interfere with my goals. A warrior is a warrior, and any minotaur or ogre that I would slay might I pray to Leki and Skodi both to steal that wayward spirit away from whatever god defiled it and bring them back to the wolven race. It is only just that ones of the bravest hearts and the proudest stride know to taste the air as wolven once more. After all, what else could they have been originally? There is no other race upon Belariath that have the understanding to the ways of the real world as The Truly Chosen. Even our shamans may find others who foolishly call themselves such and banish them back to their bodies, torn and terrified in spirit.

My words are not mere opinion, but the evidence of hundreds of years. The wolven are not so "young" as the pointy-eared bastards howl into the heavens. The heavens do not answer them back, for the stars need not speak with the slow and stupid. If the wolven were so inferior (as more than one elf has exclaimed before being eviscerated), how could they have survived some of the worse moments within Belariath? Wars have swept over whole lands before, leveling the strongest of cities and stealing the breath from villages and villagers alike. Have I yet to hear of multiple tribes and clans of the wolven being struck down in such a way. Perhaps one within an entire conflict, but never groups of them. Are the wolven too wily for such trickery and treachery. Know I this because of what I myself have learned to evade and avoid when necessary.

My blood even now pumps new strength and thoughts through my mind and my heart. Soon, will it be time to hunt. What for, though, remains to be seen, but I doubt my prey will be the size of a pigeon. Nay, what I wish to sink my teeth into will be far larger than that. My tongue tastes the air anew now, looking for the best way to begin the run. I know the taste of succulent steaks raw and cooked, and will I have them soon enough. A bison is what distracts me now from finishing this scroll. I write because I do not feel the need to orate to any. They will learn the old and new ways of the wolven people and honour them or perish. Any whom are not willing and willful are destined to fall to the forest floor and become food for the mushrooms. Gaea cares little who cannot understand their place in Her Domain, and do I understand that better than most.

My eyes narrow now as I look towards my future. Smell I others on the wind. More than likely frail little half elves, given the so-called "centre of civility" am I close to now. This village which the rabble and refuse on two legs call Rtythiurfo has so many spindle-legged lagabouts that call themselves masters of the wood. I am certain that if these three go missing that I distantly espy will they not be missed. They are bred and born far too quickly and easily, providing my clan most amusing sport. Will I feast more than well in at least one way this evening. Now to see which one it will be... it shall be both. I can afford to indulge myself this day and bathe my loins as well as my tongue. No expense will be spared this time, as my urge to hunt overtakes me. No longer will I mind this parchment. That will I eventually leave to some slave or two. Not necessarily ones in my possession, but ones I can possess in some form or another. After all, I only need them to write for a few hours and pleasure me the rest. I need not waste time slapping leather around a throat for that. My jaws against their shoulders will be convincing enough.

Care I for a few things though, but will I speak of them at another time. For now, need I find my prey - both the kind that prays and the kind that only knows how to flee. Whichever I find first will decide my night's prospects. And if it happens to be food and some ignorant isle of insolence tries to take it from me? Well, then blood will truly be drenching my maw and my claws. If naught else, will my night not be filled with sleep alone for a while. There is much I need get to, and my tongue already hangs out in anticipation.

[mozenwrathe]

*There are many different clans and tribes of wolven scattered across the land masses of Belariath. It is not surprising that not all of them see things in the exact same way as others. Of the numerous clans and tribes, the Platinum Bloodstreak Clan is not the most extreme of the wolven by far. Some of the clans will slay anything they do not find worthy of enslaving on sight. It is not all that surprising that some villages and towns do not allow wolven within their borders. The same could be said of ogres, but for somewhat different reasons.*

Not Merely The Big Bad Wolf
by Wirameju, "Bael-blessed" wolven hunter of the Platinum Bloodstreak Clan.

There is one thing to be said about the fur-less ones: they know how to actually make a good meat better. This is why they make excellent slaves for the camping fires. You find the right few, beat them into submission, and tell them to do what they do best: serve their betters. Any fur-less one that believes themselves superior to one of The Truly Chosen deserves any and all horrors one of the Blessed visits upon them until they squeal for mercy. And even then, I tend to wait until their voice is hoarse and their eyes are red like the rivulets of blood dripping from their lips and other places I have chosen to open up in order to "help" the fool see the error of their ways. Having them baste in their own blood is never a bad way to start the re-education of such fur-less ones. I do not bother with catgirls or vulpani, however, as they do not seem to act as imprudent or impudent as the completely furless ones around me. They must smell the truth of my strength and choose to behave accordingly, showing me their throats or their bellies instinctively and yet without knowing it. No, it is only the fur-less ones who choose to challenge me time after time, shouting out oaths to their ancestors - as if the dead and gone of those so decrepit and delicate would hear such dim and distant cries. They would have more fortune whispering to a willow tree.

Normally, such arrogance seeps from the mouths of males, but the occasional female will be just as stupid. Though making a male understand exactly how weak and frail he is I find most amusing. They tend to have much tighter holes than the females, and watching them weep and snivel and mewl like kittens is always exciting to my loins. Of course, I fully make sure that my lusts are sated before letting them lay there as a sobbing mess before me. Seeing my seed puddle out from them has always put a smile upon my spirit, even if I do not show it outwards. I have to admit that I tend to prefer the males to females as well, mainly as one can toss them around more. The males do not break quite as easily, and the spirit-talkers and nature-walkers can set their bones if they snap and mend their wounds without much effort. Make no mistake, I will treat them both in the same fashion, for are they equal in my eyes: equally weak and worthless for nothing more than whatever I choose to use them for.

Even then, some of them have some fight left in them. Mark my words well enough, for I do not call them weak without reason. A wolven would be able to withstand such torments for weeks on end before truly giving in. These fur-less ones, however, are bred soft and supple, making them prey from the start to the finish. Though when dealing with one who does not capitulate at the first sign of wolven superiority, one cannot just lose their temper and snap their necks. This is where one does not need patience to deal with such unsteady and unexpected resilience, but a good sense of humour. The hours or days of gratification that one can derive from one pretentious paladin or swaggering sorcerer should not be missed because one does not see the mirth. Such nerve needs to be plucked like a chicken's feathers - one at a time if you wish to get them all out properly. And watching their spirit slowly being crushed in my mighty grip is nothing less than inebriating. Just like dunking one's head into a cask into a vat of beer.

Oh yes, that is something else the feeble and flaccid ones are good at doing: creating things for their betters to drink. Dwarven ale? Obviously made for wolven who wish to celebrate with more than mountain spring water. Elven wine? Derived from the wolven need to give back freshness to dried strips of venison and mutton. All those varied things that the humans have fermented and given many all so wasteful names for? Excellent for drowning older meats in and simmering in a cauldron to give a wolven new experience upon their tongues. Though raw meats are still the best, the things that can be done with fermented milks and juices and grains are quite impressive and gratifying to my lips and tongue.

It is not a difficult process, really, and often good training for the younger members of the clan to master skills that shall be important to them much later on in life. And when I say "skills," I mean how to properly deal with a formerly "free person" and remind them of their true place in life: as a slave to the wolven. When it is all done, all the other races were put upon Belariath to try the wolven spirit and give The Truly Chosen something to strive above. They are merely beasts to be domesticated or challenges to be conquered. Some of them tend to be both, which is where these skills come into play. Learning how to identify what will make a good long term slave or how to subjugate an unworthy fur-less one without tearing it limb from him are both very important. Competence rarely comes without practice, which is why there are so many of the fur-less ones to begin with. They are all acceptable losses, as long as the wolven themselves learns more and grows wiser with each experience.

Of course, some of the would-be slaves tend to be broken to the point they cannot be healed, but there are still uses for them. Often enough, such can be put out to lure great cats and bears from their hiding places. Live bait is best when trying to lure fish, after all, so why not much more impressive game? Though such creatures are slain for more than sport - the bears and other such, I mean. The slaves have served their purpose in death that they could not in life. Though for some of the healers, they use such ones as practice themselves. To learn what they can from such badly beaten failures and use that knowledge to keep their fellow wolven healthy and strong is a noble task indeed, and one that is not given enough due respect. I make sure that certain potential slaves end up in their hands first, for there is nothing more important than remaining in prime strength and speed to deal with rogue wolven from other tribes and the occasional ogre or troll. One should never consider the healers "failed wolven," for they can easily "fail" to heal one properly, have to break a limb a second or third time to set it properly, and then allow for the body to regain its true way and form. More than one overly arrogant hunter or warrior has learned such the hard way. I have no pity for them, as they were stupid and now they are wiser.

In the end of it all, the fur-less ones are here to serve the wolven and service our desires. Nothing more and nothing less than that. It is up to each and every individual wolven to show them this. I simply do my part as I was born and bred to. To be called a savage cur for this is a badge of honour that I work so very hard to earn every time another one of the fur-less ones presents themselves to me. It is something I enjoy: being the nightmare in their sleep. For the fur-less ones need be reminded at all times of their place, and The Truly Chosen need always do this for them. It is just the way of things.

[mozenwrathe]

*There are some spirits that should never be resurrected, revived, or merely revisited. People that have done things so terrible, that the mere mention of them in certain villages can have you cast out. Of course, there are people like that every single generation, and what is considered an atrocity to some may be a godsend to others. Zealots are quite often known being the cause or the catalyst for such individuals. More often than not, however, do these people just arrive, wreak havoc, and leave in one way or another.*

L.M.N.O.P. (Let Me Now Open People)
by Vipunen Tuonela

Once in my travels, I came across a town that had a dire ban against all dark elves. Now this was nothing unusual, but what was odd about it was how successful they were. They had runes and glyphs of warning and warding, all of them set to find any with dark elven blood in them - either full or half. The first time, the person would be given a warning and told to find their business and such elsewhere, regardless of whom and what they were. The second time... well, let us say the village carpenters never ran out of work to do. Now, when I came across this village was it late at night and I missed seeing any of the rather lovely displays around the borders of their village. I was certain to see them two days later when I exited the place, and was I both horrified and amused.

To think that a village would dedicate itself to keeping out dark elves but not necessarily slaying them was interesting to me. Though I did not think much of it at the time, until I got to the next village... and were they doing pretty much the same thing. This was both in the farther northern reaches, and not where dark elves were commonly seen. Did I not understand how the two villages - close to each other as they were - could have the exact same line of thought. Though as I was just passing through, did I care not enough to ask about it. The point for me was that I needed not worry about the blasted moriel rifling through my things late at night. Just every other light fingered race would be the issue, which meant I slept with a hatchet under my pillow. Which is to say I did nothing new for my sleeping habits, considering some of the places I have rested my head in.

And by the end of the ten-day, I found myself in another village. And that village had themselves two armed militia. One was for dealing with regular threats, and the other one just for dark elves. Now I knew there was something going on in this region. Of course, it had been almost a full ten-day before I reached these three villages to begin with. The town I had been in before all this did I now recall had absolutely no dark elves in or around it. No sign of their goods, their crafts, anything. It was like the entire area was against them, even the land itself. Not one of the old trails or camping sites that I passed by looked as if it was touched by the dark elves, which suited me just fine. I was no fan of theirs to begin with. They were good for using in bed, but that was about it. One could not trust them farther than you could throw them - and often enough, far less than that. Of course, the same could be said of anyone that followed certain gods, like Ishtar, Sigaliya, and and god that says that chaos is a good thing.

By the time I reached the next real town, I thought to myself it'd be worth it to look into this a little more. It was not as if there was anyone waiting for me. I am a wanderer without a tribe or a clan. So I had nothing less or more than time to talk with some of the townsfolk. In the town itself, there was a lot of market and trade, so there were plenty of people to talk with. But bringing up the three villages and their ban on dark elves got me stonewalled for the first few people. It was then I realized something severe must have happened. Thought I would give it up for the time being, when a few of the locals decided to take me to the tavern for a drink and a history lesson about the region. Given that I had already made up my mind to not travel to the northeast again for a while, I figured it would not hurt to learn a little more than I did already. Knowledge could always be turned into power by the right person.

They went into a legend about a single dark elf. Or was it a half-elf? I cannot remember now, but it was important that they had the tainted blood of the so-called moriel in them. Considering this was well over two hundred years ago, I found it interesting on how vivid the stories were about this one man. His name would they not give at all, but the fact that he was prone to leaving poetry whenever and wherever he laid claim to lives was something rather chilling. I mean, a bloodthirsty bard? A serf-slaying skald? The mere idea struck me as preposterous, until I remembered the tales of some of the heroic soothsayers and storytellers of my own original tribe. This one elf took the lives of at least twenty people within this one region, and those were the ones who had weapons and had adequately defended themselves. They never forgave and never forgot, these townspeople and villagers. And now, neither would I. Dark elves were to be feared if one alone could do this to an entire region. Little did I know how much more I would find out about this muse-loving murderer as my travels through this area to their largest city went on...

[mozenwrathe]

*Found in the Artists' Ambit, this particular piece was somehow written entirely in the vulpani script. What makes it interesting was there have been none of that race within the Artists' Ambit for the past few days. So one has to wonder exactly whom the person was that left it behind. The parchment itself seems very old indeed, to the point it must be at least as old as the empire itself. The ink, however, was quite fresh. So it may have been written within the Artists' Ambit, but on parchment someone has been saving for a long time.*

Without A Storm To Rage Against
by Idomeneus Blackfriar, wolven pathfinder and son of Lexan Blackfriar

unless the pond that even I now look upon
raises itself like a mighty fist of water
to threaten my life and drown me on dry land
shall I know no threat or sorrow this day
and for that is my heart gladdened slightly
for have I felt so much oppressive weight
pushing itself down upon these broad shoulders
that hiding myself as one of the fur-less ones
in hopes the dreams of my darker hours
will fall upon the spirits of others more deserving
as my own spirit has weakened like a sagging willow
wanting to break underneath winter's sway

has my life been never truly my own to lead
for so many threads have been cast upon it
like spider's web pulling me from what once I craved
instead have I walked down roads I did not wish
becoming all of nothing and never one complete
do I feel like a toy at times controlled by others
one who has voice of his own and breathe to match
yet never allowed to embrace my own Fortunes
as my blood was stained by my father's Destiny
and now is it mine to be anything but him

no starry sky is overhead while I muse miserly
for do I feel the sun's lecherous gaze upon me
wanting to remove the few leathers I put on
and have me to ravish with its heated touch
my smile to the sky is one of lustful longing now
as those birds soaring overhead are so free of stress
yet am I reminded that a single arrow would slay them
so must I be tougher than such fragile creatures
which become prey to their superiors like myself

whimsy falls to the side and the woe into the pits
brushing it off with every breath I take in while rising
until my pride as one of The Blessed Chosen returns
filling my blood with the rage of those who came before
unleashed with a howl to announce to all I am present
within moment do I hear no less than three responses
howls from those whom I could consider true kin
as within the wolven is there no such thing as harmony
for will there always be strife and struggle to remain
those acknowledged to be most dominant above all

unless this pond turns itself out onto its banks
lashing out to consume any that loves open air
shall I remain resting here in quiet comfort alone
skipping one smooth stone after another across
seeing how far my eye will follow the trails and ripples
until my heart seeks challenge and conquest
and then will my legs surge with ill-hidden power
as the hunt for what will become evening meal
shall commence with a ragged smile across my face