Random Works from Random People

[mozenwrathe]

*One more piece from a denizen of the Empire who has been to and from Hurema'Inca. It is surprising that none speak of the city openly in Nanthalion. After all, the city has been around for quite some time. Of course, there is always the fact that Hurema'Inca looks upon itself as being "better" than Nanthalion. They've never wanted to be the capital of the Empire. It was "too much of a hassle being a target like that." Ah, the loyalty of a subjugated people indeed.*

The Nature Of The Shipment
by Clarent Joyeuse, sylvan megil'salka (sword dancer) of Hurema'Inca

in the emotions that I felt as I first gripped this blade
was there no fear or anguish within my heart and spirit
even though one of my closest friends had just perished
as we together pledged forward towards this goal
but now was there only excitement and exultation within
with blood staining my hair and face liberally like paint
but was I no canvas to have art placed upon my skin

she who had made it all this way along with me
was now no more than a cold shell of her former self
but within these chambers could I commit myself
to whispered prayer most fervent and feverish in song
begging spirits to carry my request high into heavens vast
wishing the great Phoenix to send down sacred flame
and breathe life back into my fallen companion's body
yet was I not answered by piercing cry and feathered wing
instead was my weeping halted by soft feet approaching
and woman covered in winding tattoos singing softly
from right arm down to left leg was she inked with care
showing herself a guardian of Orod Fea Draug* Herself
and one who understood the ways of my birthright

did the woman of descent I could not discern sing to me
and though were the words unfamiliar to my elven ears
her heart spoke unto mine as clearly as any bell would chime
so did I give my strength and my solemn vows to her
this woman of strange lineage and outlander's appearance
praying silently for my beloved comrade to be brought again
into land of those who laugh and meander under sunlight's kiss
and not forever lost to me to serve at the foot of the gods

was I far from wrong to believe in her will and her weirding
as she of jade-coloured flesh and eyes like sublime jasper
placed her lips against the chest of my dear-hearted darling
slowly cleansing the body by whispering to the waters themselves
and did the pools and puddles with this strange cavern respond
minerals of glistening and glittering aspects within the rivulets
soaking into every wound and taking away the ochre stain
though even when was my friend unblemished upon the surface
did the water remain as clear as when I first looked upon it
miracle of the waters themselves or perhaps something darker
but cared I not as the woman placed her hands over my friend
whispering to spirits high and mountains deep to guide her
until breath and blood were back within my corsort again
rendering her a carved and cooled corpse no longer

my tears of joy were her rain of remembrance
for could I not stop myself from weeping aloud
desperation and despair within my heart now banished
knowing only that she was alive once more in my arms
and would I be willing to sacrifice much to keep her
so when the priestess pressed her lips to mine first
was I surprised when she asked only for my dagger
then did she kiss she whom she had brought back
claiming the same from her as well without a scowl
whispering and singing ever so softly as she danced
causing both the blades to fade into nothingness
consumed by the rite of the ritual itself

it would be days before Braithewaite and I would emerge
from the depths of the mountain's bone chilling bosom
into open air of spring's glorious gift to the living
her eyes forever changed by what had transpired
kissed against her very spirit by Orod Fea Draug
was she now going to devote some of her life and love
to learn more about the ways and rites of my people
and eventually would we both return to see the priestess
bringing with us more than mere tribute and thanks
but those who had fallen out of favour with life
whom the priestess could teach a new way of living
giving them purpose and hope in their hearts
so they might serve Gaea and her children anew

===

* orod fea draug = "mountain spirit wolf"

[Engwedhil]

I sit here in the darkness. waiting for you to come and hold me. waiting to hear your breath against my skin. To know i am loved and wanted. But nothing arrives and so it shall be remaining this way. I leave so that you will have peace. I leave so that you will find closure. I leave so that you may heal
E

[mozenwrathe]

*Upon the disappearance of one slavegirl, the "barbarian" Prydain found himself musing about the importance of others. It was not the first nor the last time that someone had simply gone missing. Such was commonplace in his life. He himself had done such almost a decade previous. However, he had his notions and concerns about what had transpired. That, and he had liked the woman. After all, she had saved his life once.*

Under The Trade Of Foreign Lies
by Prydain Mozenwrathe, metal smith

and without more than words on a page is she gone
free or not to immerse herself in the remaining world
but is she not lost to me without a presence noted
for like few before her has she made tattoo within
her voice unnoticed until it was removed by her steps
and here my hands sit idle on kitchen counter
fingers splayed as I come to my senses once more
and mourn her departure but not my supposed kin

could I send out friends to search for three
but would they all simply question my thoughts
as are all those I have found lost from my sight
belonging to others who ought take up such quest
yet does my head hurt without any action taken
so will I soon speak to those few I have trusted
and ask of them to look in my stead but with subtlety
which will allow my shaded conscience to rest

lines on a parchment so found at shop I labour in
devoting emotion great in text so utterly small
a heart that feels lost and unable to find itself
yet did she not seek me out to find possible haven
could I feel insulted or perhaps nothing at all
for this world cares little for weak or strong
as all will collapse and crumble given enough time
leaving remains of hope on the wings of a raven

come down must I from lofty peaks of apathy
and trudge through the swirling mass of people
for am I no saviour to be held on pedestal high
or ribald character to be mocked in bard's verse
am I just one more mortal in this world so vast
anonymous to most of the spirits within in
do I feel remorse that I might have done more
that I still possess empathetic heart is my curse

[mozenwrathe]

*Unbeknown to many within Nanthalion and Valencia, there is a lot of the Ilfiran Empire that considers itself infinitely more important. The coastal cities always dealing with pirates, for example, and making sure trade continues along the "sides" of the great Empire. Considering the ships often bring slaves and goods from places not so well known, the coastal cities find those far inland to be "pampered" and "weak willed." Of course, most of those in the coastal cities have never bothered to travel far inland either, having their own lives and such to concern themselves over.*

Without Approval Of The Ancestors She Does Sing
Zbigniew the Mead-tongued, bard and lorekeeper of the Leopard Glacier tribe

Have I something in my heart I need to release: it is guilt.

Guilt over never having indulged myself with some of the women I have found myself traveling with over time. Some of the most amazing examples of femininity I have ever been fortunate enough to see. Whether it was an idle bias against a race, or the fact I just had too much sherry and port wine in me. Circumstances tend to change like the winds in the plains, blowing this way and then another. Overindulgence in other things have left me bereft of some of the more exciting experiences I could have had. And for this, do I feel that weight within my older breast.

Am I not too old to enjoy such things now, though. There is still plenty of fire and vinegar left in my spirit and my shaft to please any woman. I should know. I was busy the night before last. Though really, I should know better than to lay with a chieftain's wife by this time. It was not truly all my fault, for she did threaten to behead me in both ways if I did not give her the pleasure she was demanding. Apparently the chieftain himself had been too busy sticking his sinful spear into his many slaves to spend time soothing his sacred seductress. So I did what any good member of the Leopard Glacier tribe with a member would do, and bathed her aches with my manly means. It was not as if she was hideous or anything, either. She was just... a little taller than I was. Only by a full head and shoulders, nothing that proper tongue use and fingering could not overcome. And at my age, there is no excuse for not knowing what you are doing.

It is not only the wives of chieftains have I lain with though. There have been more than a few wizards of womanly wiles that have known my sexual staff. Though I must admit that not all the times was I of finest form. More than once was I drugged in my cuffs to be used for such things. I never understood their need to lace my drink with such powdered leaves, for I would have gladly bedded most of them. That one ogress, for example, was an exception to her kind. Was she, in fact, quite comely. Her only fault was that her skin - though not covered in warts and such deformities - was hard like dried leather armour. There was much oil used on her flesh before it was ready to be groped and fondled. And yet, she seemed almost timid when it came time to know my taste within her mouth. Ah, the things one has to teach the younger generation to enjoy, even if they are able to rip your arms off with a little struggle and strain. By the time I was spent, had he learned quite well what men were great at. I almost felt sorry for her three minotaur slaves. Almost, because they had been keeping close and leering watch on my hips and thighs from the moment they saw me. Nay, I have no need to lay with men of any kind when there is a woman not that far away somewhere.

Have I left my seed within many a woman across these great mountains and valleys. Have I left my seed within a many a woman's mountains and valleys, if you understand my words. I have been no monk to abstain from the warmed bed of any woman that offered. Despite my tribe's reputation for ravaging and rape, have I never needed to do such. Besides, we only do that in order to lay claim to what was rightfully ours and did know it not yet. Once you make sure the new slaves know their place by individually or group claiming, normally they are not so willing to be defiant and dangerous when left to gather grain or prepare the food. Make no mistake, however, to think that such slave bait is not claimed more than once. The men of the Leopard Glacier tribe do not seed just to breed. No, are we a robust people, and shall we take to slake our needs as often as we feel like.

The guilt I feel now I am sure is word from my ancestors about how I have failed to increase the numbers of my tribe. I have never been what one would call a "man of family's honour." Have I always been one to roam, and shall I always remain such. Though it does not help I needed to escape my tribe's lands for reasons of my own. Emotional ones, not physical or those involving blood debts. Have I paid anything I have owed to others in one form or another, except for three debts of blood that I forever must hold my dagger to my own breast about. The chieftain of my tribe swore me to such on his sword, and will I hold my steel and my tongue to the death of me. It was the day I needed to swear such oath against my own personal honour that I gave up the dream of becoming one who sought descendants to carry on my blood's bounty.

Some have called me "Zbigniew the Remorseless," "Zbigniew the Homewrecker," and other such things. That is entirely untrue. Have I never sought to ruin any relationship between mated pairs unless it was for the good of the Leopard Glacier tribe. And even then, have I thought to salvage one or more parties from such a fall out. After all, our women like to have nice strong strapping saplings on their slaves as well. Any born from such a union would be full blooded members of the tribe after they passed a test or two. Not to mention are there three known clans within the tribe, so if need be bloodlines can be mixed around some. Besides, not one time have I bedded a woman without the thoughts of making sure she knew plenty of pleasure from my touch. How would one have remorse for giving the gift of orgasm after orgasm? For shame, those who have attempted to label me "The Ruinous Red-tongue." For shame, indeed.

[mozenwrathe]

*Not all unhappy stories have a bad ending. Some of them just do not end. One could look at the lives of serfs and peasants underneath the rule of certain island pirate lords. They dare not leave because of death on the water. They do not wish to stay because of the risk of rape and riotous rampages. The shores are dangerous due to skirmishes with other pirate crews. Captives from other raids would be dropped off and then told to find a place for themselves and to be profitable or be shark chum. In Belariath, there are no certainties except for one: there's always someone out there stronger... and worse than your current captor.*

R.E.S.U.M.E.S. (Raging Emotions Subside Underneath Moderated Eloquent Speeches)
by Ichilandar Shimmerstrike, mor'edhel farstrider and business minder

There are days that I miss the NetherGloom. There were certain certainties in my life that I could count on dealing with every day. At least, that is back when I was still within House Tintoreda's personal compound. The amount of effort I needed to put forth was minimal, but that was due to my Matron Mother wanting to marry me off to a House with some significant standing. After all, a Firstborn that has few enemies is always a great bargaining tool to market and flag about. And to think, I had not gotten any of the random slaves and such impregnated during my dallying ways. I believe there was something in the wine that my Matron Mother always had my brother and I drinking. Something about not wanting illegitimate heirs that she couldn't keep track of. Yes, she really did plan for just about everything.

I could not tell my Beloved that I have such longings to return to the NetherGloom, originally. At least, not without explaining why I still have no interest to make myself to back. With the mor'edlhel blademistress I love so much, I have found honesty to be the best policy. Shock and wonder, is it not? Occasionally going against the normal order of things works out for the better. Well, now she knows and knows well why such would be difficult at best for me to even step foot within the NetherGloom again. For a start, I do not wish to be told whom I am going to wed. Not that I cared for the first one hundred and fifty years of my life, but the moment I met she who has become my motivation and my heart, the thought of being bound to another for any political reason just abhors me. Such strong language about a loveless wedding? I know, but not all my life have I spent just to find myself risking it every night I go to bed. The chances of dying in your sleep are a lot higher than one would think inside the NetherGloom. And there's no cause for it to be a peaceful death. With my fortunes, it would be a piece-full death, if one can understand the gist of my words.

Something else I have neglected to mention to her is the fact that it is not one Minor House that would love to see me captured but three of them. I do not believe that truly matters much at the moment, as none of them are seeking me actively. All of them believe me a corpse at this time, and I have no desire to prove them wrong. The last time any of them saw me alive, I was fighting for my life in the mines against their assassins. Their killers must have been on their first mission above ground, so little a threat I must have been considered. To be honest, I had not even thought of the Grand Games of the Minor and Major Houses for at least two years when that transpired. Let them think me dead while I sit here and sip on tea while making my mehrial slowly. The longer I have to grow stronger and plot, the more time I have to improve my stabbing and slashing.

Never in my over two hundred and fifty years have I found myself as busy outside of battle as I have been on the surface these past few months. And to be truthful, I find it refreshing. Now do I manage to work at three different locations, each with their own benefits and drawbacks. Out of the three, the one that earns me the least in additional coin is the one I strangely enough have the most loyalty to. Well, at least towards one of the managers and an employee or two. That being the grand public bathing house located within the region of Nanthalion. One of the fae that works there caught my attention, which is not a bad thing for her. She has made me grin despite myself once or twice. And then there is the manager that hired me. If it were not for my Beloved, I would glad have worked my way into her bed. Who knows? I still might. It is not as if the woman is completely objectionable to my presence to begin with.

Something I truly ought do it spend more time with my Beloved and within her home though. I like it there. Nay, I love it there. She has all the things a mor'edhel like myself could ever want: plenty of land to roam within, loyal slaves that listen to their bidding, crops that seem to grow themselves, and neighbours that do not want her throat cut. There are dark elves who would pay great amounts of mehrial for such good fortunes. I believe I've mentioned it before once or twice, but it is something almost expected within the mindstate of the surfacers. Given how often they will rape and slay each other over a perceived slight, I wonder how they could point fingers at dark elven society so often. We just embraced such a lifestyle openly, instead of attempting to call it an aberration of our civilization. Ah, the hypocrisy makes me smile, I must admit.

As I said at the beginning, there are times I miss the NetherGloom, but there is far more than enough here on the surface to make sure I stay on the surface. By the time I go back to the NetherGloom, I fully intend to be ready for such. I doubt I shall be quite as powerful as Waelin Senger Kinslayer upon my stepping back into what should be home for me. With the right work put in, though, I will not have to be.

[mozenwrathe]

*Staying at The Lonely Inn, you take your chances with those who flow through there like water. One day, you could be drinking peacefully, and the next day fending off three goblin rapists. Of course, you could be the one trying to rape them, but such is the mercurial nature of the building itself. There are ways around such chaotic situations, but it is easier to embrace them than avoid them... or just buy yourself a place to live itself.*

L.O.C.K. (Leaving Overwhelming Chaos Keening)
by Kuroshiro, vulpine shaman and philosopher

without the darkness am I lightheaded
almost ready to float away without fear
my death have I foreseen many moons ago
and those closest to my heart I still hold dear

these many years have left me wanting more
but have I made do with less indeed
yet shall I know my legacy lives on well
for wide have I spread my potent seed

never a true mate have I taken for long
instead making sure I have embraced passion
always being sure to be generous with meager means
for being beloved never truly leaves fashion

lies are wrapped around my heart like cords
and to free myself will take all my strength
those who sought to discredit all I've done
have talked to others about me at length

shall the poisons of their words not be my demise
though will many look upon my seasons with scorn
yet will the truth rise above the forest ceiling
such as mighty oak from the smallest acorn

allow them their words to stomp on my name
for their lasting lies will slowly erode to dust
and while these fools do their best to ruin my deeds
shall I show their mates the better meaning of lust

have I no remorse for where I've stuck my tongue
as long as my partners have blushed and moaned
for have I achieved victory in their orgasmic bliss
this being the only warfare I've truly condoned

my eyes are no longer strong like eagle's gaze
nor my ears sharper than well honed blade
but need I neither of those to know when I'm
going to be subjected to good friend's tirade

laughter and loss have both traveled with me
from one coast of these lands to the other
rain has almost drowned me on mountains high
and have I been forced to call winter my mother

shall my eyes close soon and not open again
will I not be afraid of my final sleep upcoming
for into the arms of My Mistress My Goddess
my spiritual form toward gladly will be running

without the light is the darkness my blanket
covering me with the night's lovely embrace
and once the final star shines in this evening sky
shall I perish but with smile on my face

[mozenwrathe]

*Not every singular sentient within the Ilfiran Empire is loyal to Lord Stormbringer. That is an impossibility. Everyone knows this, but there's always the wishful thinker. Not all that are not loyal to the Emperor are completely disloyal either. Some simply do not care either way whom is in charge, as long as nothing they are working on is disrupted. After all, for those who have outlived generations of humans, what is one empire over another? Just a set of rules to keep in mind when doing their own thing.*

Some Things That Are Left Up To Change
by Kuroshiro, vulpine shaman and philosopher

have I no lovely bunch of fruits before me
or roasted fish to consume for my repast
as this happens to be the week when I
have chosen to commit to a sunrise fast

from morning to evening will I consume nothing
except for water with roasted herbs and season
a blend I admit tastes horrid even at best of times
but I do this for more than one good reason

to My Mistress My Goddess have I dedicated
my body and spirit for all of my breathing days
and if I could not purify myself for Her Purpose
would I be useless and my visions be naught but haze

one time every turning of the weather and nature
meaning at least four times a year is this my fate
but I resent nothing of my faith and my fortunes
even if it means to grand dinners I must be late

tears of anguish have I cried at least once this week
for what I could have sworn was truth before my eyes
but it was distorted nightmares caused by lack of faith
and when I rose from twisted slumber was I surprised

are there many things I have tasted on the winds
changes that will reverberate through hearts and minds
and while all these shifts will take many years to form
will they put boots into so many different behinds

my time I am sure is closing near and yet
have I many years left before my end shall fall
this fur of mine still holds its sheen with pride
and have I survived more than one tavern brawl

will I manage to go without my snacks and noontime meals
in order to serve My Goddess well and with all my heart
so this week where I sacrifice a little to gain so much more
can do nothing to tear my love for My Goddess apart

have I just a few more days to endure this trial
which I have set for myself to prove my worth and mettle
so once this is done and I am free from self made bondage
to a grand banquet for myself and others will I settle

[mozenwrathe]

*Everyone deals with loss in their own way. Some indulge in self destructive behaviour, while others seek to seclude themselves from the world. A few simply brush it off and keep moving as if nothing bothers them, and in doing so give those around them strange impressions of how much are they worth. In the end, loss is measured by one's own personal experiences, but so is gain.*

Passing The Word From Hearts To Lips
by Eglynie Jadvyga, chirot priestess of Sheara

have I lost nothing in my strive to glory
knowing that my word I preach is true and good
every time I speak about the wonders of Sheara
do I place more power within the hearts of those
who once had lost their faith and their way
unknowingly falling prey to grand works of evil
all started by those of feathered wings
whose spirits are so wretched they even befoul
any decent and noble denizens of the lesser born
for those without wings will never understand
the wind and rain quite intimately as my people
and therefore the howling nonsense of Torian lies
infects their bodies and their minds like old age
only to be cured by death or purification rites

have I lost nothing in my quest for beauty
not of my physical form but my spiritual being
to make myself to what Sheara's ideal is
or as close as my merely mortal heart will show
as She is the one who will show us all the way
to not just salvation but the severing path
cutting the Kiroan curse free from Belariath
watching them all burn into ash in pyres bright
removing the blight upon these lands that were they
leaving Her Chosen Descendants to become rulers
though would I be only a voice for Her Wisdom
my heart could find itself content in such a world

have I lost nothing that I could not regain in time
leaving what was once my home and haven
traveling far to place had I never heard of before
knowing at first only one or two of Her Lost Children
could I find to bring to my bosom and give back
what had been stolen from them by time and despair
even if they might wish more from me than words
for are other desires within the hearts of the faithful
and those am I not quite adverse to fulfilling at times
with bodies strong and passions hot will bonds be made
wrapping chains of purpose around their breasts
even as their moans of ecstasy fill my ears

have I gained everything I could never achieve
if She Who Guides had not taken me in hand to go away
finding place where Her Voice was not being heard
knowing that roots of Wisdom needed to be placed deep
did She give me the courage to accept Her Will and Want
and upon currents of wind and whispering faith I went
knowing nothing of what I would find when I eventually stopped
my search for new ground to break for Her finally ending
and these hearts and spirits will I claim for My Goddess
allowing Her army of faithful and beloved to grow

[mozenwrathe]

*It is said there have been minotaurs born with horns of purest metals or gemstones. If that is true, then they would have been blessed by those the minotaur people place their faith in. To that extent, there have been tales of those minotaurs who lost their horns in battle of some sort, then had them replaced with duplicates of varying materials. That is far more likely to the truth, but then one has to question why they did not simply have a healer grow it back for them...*

The Vale Which Leads To The Meadow
by Alimah Pour'ahne of the Bronze Shield-wisent Clan

There was one minotaur I heard of that did something none of her clan would have fathomed possible or proper. This was quite a while ago, back in the time of the vulpani philosopher Kuroshiro. So I figure it would be at least two centuries ago if not more. Then again, I do not know when it was the vulpani oracle was said to have perished. Long before the time of the Ilfiran Empire, of that I am certain of. For how far back the tale was, I do not remember the person telling the story mentioning even once about the tower of Unigo. Of course, most woven tapestries of talk have nothing to do with the tower. It was mainly about one strange minotaur with brands of a slave that had lost all her pride and hope, then allowed her horns to be cut from her head by the one that owned her. It was what transpired after that which made the story so incredulous and yet amazing.

The bard's name was something like Lúthien Telperiën or Lyysienne Tylpiirien. Something that sounds beautiful that that would be almost impossible to pronounce without sounding like a fool. More often than not, I believe they purposely do that just to mock the rest of the races. I know there are plenty of elves with completely reasonable names like Fariyah or Ilsomnue'beliana and even one whom called herself Excel'syynia. Things that my tongue could gently wrap themselves around and say with proper respect for the tone and tantalizing pitch of the names themelves. I can remember really hating to attempt saying the woman's name when I asked her questions about her wonderful piece, but I digress.

She, Lúthien or Lyysienne or Laersziainee or however it was said, was telling this story about her younger days. When she was a mere one hundred and fifty or so years of age. Of course, she was telling this mostly to humans of all kinds, so anything above seventy years of age is impressive with her body like hers. Anyway, she went on about how she had met a particularly sadistic weapons-master who had bested a minotaur in combat. Not that she had been able to put up much of a fight against the man - a member of The Tribes. Originally had her name been Erissanoi, but it had been stripped from her, much like her clothing and her will to do anything but serve her master and endure another day.

She had never been trained for combat, insisted the Tribesman, laughing in mockery about how the minotaur maiden had just been one who used her talents to craft pottery and glass works. He had savoured breaking her down just outside of the native homelands of the minotaurs, branding her with his mark just on the breastbone and above the tailbone. There was more scarification done to the minotaur lass as well, along all of her shoulders. The elven bard said she had never seen a body so intricately and erotically scarified before... nor seen eyes so very lost.

What had been the worst of it was her horns had both been neatly cleaved from her head. Each of them served as a hilt to the man's famed longswords: Tasiwóo the Tamer and Mululbí the Mauler. The stumps of the female's horns had been slathered with some sort of liquor or resin and then burned. Her horns would never grow again, which the weapons-master would constantly belittle her over with glee. The way this man treated his minotaur slavegirl was horrific: having her sleep in the stables and serve whatever random men would give the Tribesman enough money to pay for his excesses. Did she know no less than seven males of different races a night some times, all because the weapons-master found it hilarious to use her as nothing less than someone else's entertainment.

It was one late night that a pair of dwarves who had been humiliated by this man no less than a year before sought a subtle and unique vengeance upon him. So while the Tribesmen slept in a drunken stupor, three males slaves marked with his hand prints and his seed curled up around him in a huge bed, the dwarves hunted down the slave minotaur. Upon her head, they affixed two horns that had been carved from granite and policed to smoothness. The horns were longer than her original ones and coated in a resin all their own. Upon the bottom of each of the false horns, runes and glyphs of the dwarven people had been carved, granting them the ability to bond with the base of her original horns, but at a price. The naked minotaur maiden found herself writhing in soundless agony, for the dwarves had used potions to keep her docile and muted. But the transformation did not stop there. Removing the iron ring she had in her nose, a new one of purest lodestone had been fashioned. The anguish that sent ripples through her mind and spirit would cause nightmares that would last her the entire evening.

The next morning, the weapons-master would come down to see his slave looking completely different. The dwarves had also used a strange ritual that bonded the metal dust of old mithril flakes to the slave brandings on her chest and her back. Sensing something was wrong was easy, but was there none to take out his anger upon except his slave. The Tribesman reared back to punch his tampered and tamed minotaur tart until his rage was appeased. However, the first blow struck by the Tribesman was right to the slave marking itself. The heavy metal collar around the minotaur's neck fell away as if cleaved with an axe, leaving the minotaur gasping for air but collarless. The Tribesman, though, fell victim to the last part of the ritual: a spell of entrapment that delivered all the agony given unto one individual over the course of their most recent week in a singular minute. The Tribesman, who had been delivering his regular streaks of abuse to the minotaur with whips and chains and blades, keeled over in shock and suffering, unable to rise again for hours. In that time, the minotaur took the two swords that had been made with her horns as hilts, along with the small satchel of coin he had carried down into the stables with him, and headed for the river.

Naked, with streaks of men's seed and blood still coating her, the minotaur dove into the waters of the fast flowing river, not to be seen again in that region. Most thought she had perished, for the river that day was swollen from the rains of the previous week. Even a swamp troll, it was said, could not have survived that current. Though did the elven bard mention she had heard tales some twenty years later about a minotaur dancer and artisan named Mimiteh'Rayen who had two very distinctive swords she performed with. Sadly, was she not able to confirm with her own eyes if this Mimiteh'Rayen was the same minotaur who had first been known as Erissanoi of the Emerald Eyes.

It makes for a great story, but I doubt it can be proven. Though I will look for myself if such is true, using the friends and familiars I have made along the way. If such could be proven, would there be tales for the ages of how even broken my people could still be magnificent. Those dwarves must have been masters of their craft, but obviously guided by the gods of the minotaur people. That is the only way they could have gotten such inspiration that would lead one of my lost cousins from the past back to the way of glory and greatness.

[mozenwrathe]

*There are many legends of many peoples. But those tales that talk of those replacing something that was part of the body with steel or stone never cease to capture the imagination. Whether it be a pirate who lost a hand and now wears a magical gauntlet of iron, or the sad story of the little girl whose hair was turned to spun gold, bards never cease with such sagas. They may all have a common thread, but as many different minerals are there to mine, there's over one hundred stories to go with each.*

Adventures That Gave Her No Credit
by Neelkamala D'aari, fatesinger of the Platinum Feather Tribe

When I was but a girl, was I told about how you could use different minerals found deep within the earth to create things. Jewelery was but one of those things, but must I admit was it what caught my eye. The sparkling in the sunlight was something I had only seen water do when frozen in the winter. There was something inherently beautiful when I saw what was in fact my first amethyst necklace. It was going to be a gift for one of my uncle's partners. He had a few of them, or so my father told me when I had asked. I could never remember if I had cousins through that uncle or not. My father said there were a few in the village that were "uncles" of mine but had no blood relation to me. It would be years before I understood what he meant by that.

Later on in the same month, were we visited by a skald. The woman by now must be long dead, but her name do I feel upon the tip of my tongue still: Calithaë. For one of her advanced age, was she quite beautiful. Her arms were covered with runic script, clearly that from one of the barbarian tribes. To me, it looked like the reverse of the writing that was on the arms of one hunting-slave the head shaman of my Tribe's community owned. As my father would eventually explain to me, was there a reason or it. That slave had been tattooed and branded in a similar fashion the skald did, but Calithaë's was done for the good of her tribal bonds. With the slave, was he marked for betraying some of the younger druids and shaman of his people to the moriel. He had done so willfully, and was traded to the head -shaman in exchange for two hunting dog cubs. For Calithaë, the tattoos were a symbol of her dedication to the old ways and traditions of her barbarian people. What I noticed though was not the tattoos, but the fact she had teeth made of what I learned was burned golden topaz. It was the first time I had ever seen someone with faked teeth in their head. It gave her smile a strange glow to it, and not one that was very welcoming.

As time would go on, did I see others that had used precious stones or metals to sort of put back something that was gone. Normally would it be teeth, as I found some from the coasts who were used to pirates got gold teeth as often as anything. There were some that went for carved ivory or even mithril, but gold was the most popular of choices. Not that gold was cheap or easily gotten though. It was the established king to show how important you were. Swords and rings would be mithril to hold your spells and enchantments on to be certain. But if you wanted people to notice your riches, you went for the gold. I know of a few others that had gotten their mouths completely regenerated by powerful healers, and for them were they paid in gold mehrial coin. Some of them melted down the coin to make bracelets for themselves, but I daren't say which ones for I know the law forbids such treatment of the currency of the land.

It would be around my fourteenth winter that I met Calithaë's youngest daughter. Her name, as one would have expected, was Ciällystae. She was twice my age at the time, and by far not the most handsome woman in the region. Her hair seemed to be bound in strange braids that made no sense to me originally. It was what they were held fast with what fascinated me: combs of ebony wood and then decorated with hematite. The hair on Ciällystae's head itself was like seven shades of red, from close to brown to almost the glistening of flame. And within that waist-length mane of hers, one shock of purest black hair down the middle. The story's told said she had made a bargain with a dangerous spirit and the spirit changed her hair from black to the reds that it is now. The combs were a present from the spirit itself, which she always had to wear. Whether that was true or not, I would never know. Ciällystae never allowed those haircombs to leave her sight or her hair, and none would have kept their fingers reaching for them - even in jest. Her tongue was sharp, but her scimitar far sharper.

For years afterwards, did I wish to know the answer as to why I wanted to much to learn about gemstones. Something drew me back to them, even when I was learning to become a proper fatesinger. So in my little amounts of spared time, did I talk to the traveling traders of my Tribe to learn more from them. It was not quite the education I had wanted, but it was far better than nothing. They were also the ones who told me their version of the legend of Mimiteh'Rayen of the Midnight Magnificence. A tale of a minotaur entertainer who could move as well as any Tribeswoman, dancing with two beautiful blades known as Tasiwóo and Mululbí. What made the story fascinating was that the minotaur's horns were to have been made of granite, crafted by dwarves and runes carved into them with the utmost care. Even as a legend, the mere vision of such would be incredible. Even now, I can envision those blades of hers that were dyed a late morning blue to match the skies she loved to watch so much moving in time with heavy timpani beaten by a group of drummers with the lovely sounds of my people's female bards singing high and in thanks to the gods.

Shall I need accept I will always be amazed by what gemstones and minerals are just underneath us all. How not others cannot find the same joy as I do saddens me in some ways. Still, variety is what makes all my experiences different, and what shall enrich every story I sing. Would I be thankful to see what certain gemstones look like before they are taken from the mines themselves, but I fear greatly going underneath the ground for any depth or length of time. A regular cave to rest in overnight is fine, but more than that is something I refuse to allow myself to suffer through. Though I remember finding gold in a cave once. It was then I learned it was occupied by goblins. Well, it was... up until the bear noticed all within. I managed to get past the bear and its mate with about a satchel full of the mehrials the goblins had stolen from others. The goblins fed the bear. With themselves. No more caves that aren't lit by torches for me ever again.

[mozenwrathe]

*Of those in the recent entourage of Neelkamala D'aari, most would not have figured Indukanta as being the one who archived much on parchment. Then again, all three of those Neelkamala kept close to her bosom had little secret talents of their own. In the case of Indukanta, hers was not as much of a secret as it was something she played down on a regular basis. She had other things she wanted to be known by, and those who refused to acknowledge such would find themselves learning why that was a mistake sooner or later.*

Indigenous To The Spirit And The Seas
by Indukanta Galfujga, member of the Four-Colours Waterfall tribe

There are many tales from my youth I could tell to others to show them how strong my tribe is, or how valiant. I leave most of those to the elders of my tribe, as they would spin the words into winds strong enough to bind and images so clear in mind could you reach out and touch them. The elders of my tribe are not simply old men and women whom are too old and feeble to hunt for themselves. They possess wisdom and knowledge earned from surviving within this world for years and never succumbing to the many ways that Death could cast Her Wreath of Ivory Thorns upon the head of the living. In my tribe, our elders were not burdens but honoured members of good standing. Those tribes who would treat their wizened peoples like trash or a weight around their necks deserve to be scattered to the four winds and be absorbed back into the soil where we all were sown and hewn by the gods themselves.

I find it better to tell of what I know or have known to be true because I was there. Sewing stories together with trials and tribulations, words and worries is something I leave to others. People such as one of the women I travel with, Neelkamala, are good at such. Nay, she is fantastic at putting forth fantasies and making them come alive with her words. Her ability to do such is about as great as some people's swordplay have I seen. Blade dancers, who leap through the flames of a ritual bonfire and slash through them with bronze kopis or golden-coloured kris knives. Those with feet so deft could the stand tall on two toes are just incredible to me. Wish I had such ability, but most of them were slaveborn to begin with and trained from when they were but knee high to writhe and move in such ways. Though my blood is not truly one of the People of Greatness alone, have I never thought myself lacking... except when I see such beauty move before me. If anything, is it small comfort most of those who dance the frost and the flames are usually of swirled blood like myself.

When it comes to tales of yore, did I never find them boring and not worth listening to. Of course, there are some who may make water dry as sand and sunlight cloudy as a storm. This is where being nice to your elders would be a great thing. They could let you know who told the best tales of each kind before you started to ask. I knew one of my elders, a man named Erutan, was horrible to ask for almost anything. However, his tales of hunting small and medium sized game were full of detail and information, it was required listening for those children who wanted to grow up and provide for the tribe. Though was he blind now mostly in both eyes, he could describe things so well that smelling the fresh dew on that early morning and feeling the whispered wisps of daybreak against the skin was possible from his phrase turning. Surprisingly, it was almost always girls that would demand of his stories of the hunting and trapping, for so many wanted to capture animals for taming and training. I would have to say that if it were not for Erutan and his cousin Neidanac, quite a few would-be hunters would have had to learn more from error than trial.

More often than not, skalds and bards tended to be welcomed to my tribe but set a little away from them as guests. Both were held in a little bit of superstition by those of my tribe. Of course, there was also the fact many traveling entertainers and soothsayers had a habit of sewing disarray into a tribe by sewing their wild oats into whatever willing partners they could find. Though I did remember one old, old woman who visited my tribe during a particularly vicious spring. By the time the summer came, had she taken ill. Two who were training to become shaman tended to her ailments, barely bringing her back from Death's Dearest Embrace. She, whose name was Yht'leah, actually petitioned my tribe to be accepted, for the two who had given her such gentle attentions were both found orphans who had been raised by the tribe as warded ones. She wanted to give them something greater: a chance to become family. Despite her age, was she given the rites to bind her breath and blood to the Four-Colours Waterfall tribe, and took both of them as her grandchildren. Would she pass away five years later, but by then had she bestowed unto them and many others much of her wisdom. Was she given proper pyre with much mourning and song, led by the two she adopted.

Are there not many who live longer than half of a hundred years. The land is not kind to young or old, but claims all in its own time. Whether it be strife between tribes, battles between us and the wolven, or random moments when the weather itself decides to claim prize of personage, does Death come for us all. Any who manages to surpass that is someone to learn from more often than not. Though must I admit are there some who outlive others who have no more to offer than bitterness and bullheadedness. There are a few elders like that in my tribe, but are they related to those who have earned importance and place in my tribe, so few say anything about them. This is not a bad or good thing, but just what is. Like knowing the winter brings blizzards and wolves with coats like ivory. One of those is Widow Wyradne. She has outlived both the men she handfasted, presumably because they just wanted to die after being with her for years. That is what the young men would always say in quiet tones and very far from the tribe's main settlement. I would not know, for is she the holder of the sharpest tongue of the entire Layorknra Clan. And as my family preferred to have as few dealings with them as possible, I would only be seen around her in passing. She has lost some of her once famous appearance due to the weathering years, but she has gained a more fearsome glare and unswerving conviction that her Clan is the best of all within the Four-Colours Waterfall tribe. I think I would have preferred her staying beautiful, really.

Perhaps one day I will find myself in a log cabin and telling tales to my own grandchildren. That day is definitely a long way off, for first would I need find a male or two that I would want to bear the children of. Though am I sure I could always gather a few random street urchins and teach them in the ways of my people. Might I do that in time anyway, to give more life to the tribe and have them too learn to become one with the lands and the skies. Those who have been abandoned by their society should become part of mine, and be woven into the tapestry of life of my tribe. So then those elders of mine will have yet more generations of youth to give their life experiences to. My elders always taught us to waste as little as possible that could not be easily regained. And there is nothing that would show that more than absconding with those the towns take as pests and ruin and giving them new spirit and new hope within their hearts. If anything, know I well how great of a task it would be to sew the lost and reap the found. Maybe that would be my story to my grandchildren: how I turned old wounds into new blood.

[mozenwrathe]

*There are some stories which are best forgotten. At least some stories one learns something about themselves in the telling. Other tales have a moral to them which awakens a portion of the spirit that until then had lain slumbering. Even more are just for entertainment to give people something fantastic to dream about. But are there moments in time which most agree should never be recalled. Those are the fragments that are the most important to lorekeepers and soothsayers - namely to know whether or not they've happened before... or shall occur again.*

Tragic Blue Sky Rain of Absyrtus'vanima
by Lexan Blackfriar, wolven sorcerer, father of at least a few wolven

Something I remember being told by some old sylvan elves once was a tale of a city that no longer stands. What mattered about the story was not that the city vanished from the eyes of mortals, but how it was removed. I know nothing about if it was some hoax created by elves just to see if they could convince humans of all stripes to go and investigate something that would lead to their deaths or not. I know if that was the purpose, had it worked. More than three rival adventuring companies had set out in the past year to find the ruins of the city, but none had returned. The irony was that despite the money those companies had put into the town I had meandered into, none of them were missed. The men had a habit of almost ruining the pleasure slaves they had rented, and causing much destruction in drunken humour. In fact, goblins were more welcomed than those of those adventuring companies. Now that was saying something.

As the elves told me the story they had poured into the ears of the men from before, did I learn why it was such a grand lure. The city was known as Absyrtus'vanima, and in the far northern reaches of what is now the Ilfiran empire, was it considered a crown jewel. Of course, if it had existed during the time of Lord Stormbringer's grand conquest, he would have definitely sought it out for its riches. But there is a good chance he had never heard of it before. You see, the city itself had been devastated around four hundred years or so before the arrival of The Ivory Tower of Unigo. Which would make it nothing less than ancient history in the eyes of almost all the known races - except for elves and vulpani, really. I know nothing of the Magi and how long they live, but they are all aloof like elves but heavier, so possibly them too.

It was to the north of Northern Shield Wall and on the eastern coasts. At least this is what they intimated, but the city was built on a plateau in a mountainous range, close to the great oceans itself. A city, not a mere town or a tiny village, mind you, that had stood for at least a vulpani's lifetime. Now if this was all true, that would have made Absyrtus'vanima even older than another city that lays along the eastern coasts, but has a history that is interwoven with Nanthalion and Unigo in its own rights: the walled city of Város Sok Dicsoséget. Now that city has stories unto itself, but such is for another time. Absyrtus'vanima was from all accounts originally a dwarven settlement in one of its levels that expanded upwards and outwards, connecting to an elven enclave. How this all came about is a mystery unto itself, but I digress. The history of the city had been explained to me as well, but that is not what I wish to talk about this time. Mayhaps another meal - paid for by yourself, of course - will have me talk more about what they told me about the lands themselves and how they were tamed and cultured by the races that chose to live there. Not truly harmonious, to be sure, but one was not as likely to die in a back alley as you are in somewhere like, say, Hurema'Inca.

What was so magnificent about the city was its ruling system. They had a council of seven, one of them being a vulpani. Every seven years was the council reselected, with representatives chosen only from those who had done something for the city past or present. Most of those within the city cared little who ruled, as long as things were not altered in ways that harmed themselves or their businesses. The city by the time of the catastrophe was many leveled, including having docks down at the sea itself to port in and out goods. Dwarves working hand in hand with captured dark elven slaves from attempted raids, goblin grunts commanded by high elven mercenaries, and other such things were quite common. The corsairs of the city were mostly those ship captains who had nowhere else to turn and given a second chance to become buccaneers in the name of Absyrtus'vanima. Those who sought to betray the city at first opportunity learned how well their flesh could feed the fishes in the harbour. In essence, there was no sign that anything could harm this city aside from a disaster of Gaea's design.

From how the tale goes, what caused the removal of the city from existence was a group of children praying on the shores to their gods of sky and life, giving thanks to them for everything Absyrtus'vanima had blessed them with. Two goddesses of the oceans heard this and were greatly offended. Well, it is unsure if they were goddesses, powerful spirits, or something else entirely. All I know for sure was they were of water and ice, of bone and of breath. Whatever they were, the two were female and aggrieved. As most males know of any sentient race, that's never a good thing. Having been omitted from the prayers and thanks of the children, would the duo invisibly go and listen in on the worship of others along the shores, completely ignoring the fact both had temples of their own that were regularly full at least thrice every ten-day. Hearing their names not much at all had turned their aggrieved natures to becoming outright vengeful. This could not stand, they believed. If they would not be loved, then they would be feared, so they vowed to themselves.

From the great depths of the ocean, summoned the two a horrible storm. Pulling as well from the skies, dire winds and heavy clouds. Though other gods protested their irrational actions, the two goddesses cast their wrath in the form of a tempestuous rainstorm fueled almost from the sea itself. A saltwater torrent from the skies would deluge the city of Absyrtus'vanima, but was it subtle at first. It would be mostly misty the first day, slowly increasing day after day. Even with prayers to Gaea herself and a few to Aden'Ver, the mists and fogs would not decrease. When the rains finally started, many started giving offerings to the goddesses of water and weather, but was it far too late. By the end of the ten-day, the rains were in full control of the heavens above the mountainous range where the city was located.

Some within the city who had the means to decided to take early vacation. As there was a Grand Portal located not far from the city on the plateau where the main body of the city was placed, many flocked there to get themselves to where the portal itself was attached to. Still others had made their way down to the shores through the caverns which led down and around, or through the passes before they became too dangerous to traverse. The exodus from the city was a small one at first, and mostly those who believed they were just dealing with a rainy season start. By the time it was clear these rains were not natural ones by far, though, were the council members themselves swamped with pleading and raging people, all of them demanding something be done to appease the gods.

It was here when the fates themselves turned against the city. The two goddesses were confronted by a pair of gods who had found the city's worship most potent and pleasurable. The deities argued most vehemently and their strife translated into the seas becoming more turbulent, the storms in the skies growing more violent, and lightning would now join the thunder at long last. Casting wrath and remorse into the lofty peaks of the mountains, landslides of minor import would be caused. This, though caused the openings of caverns and pits in the great ranges, allowing for greater flooding. As well, the gods themselves were too busy dealing with each other to see the greater ramifications of what they were doing to the very city they were feuding over. Roads that were once proofed against higher rains and winds were now rivers themselves. A plain that had not seen water in over three years was now a small lake. And deep within the mountain itself, something started to stir that had not awoken in centuries.

By the third ten-day's end, the city was half flooded itself. The streets had been washed out, and the only way to traverse anywhere was by hoping the random waves that washed through the avenues and such did not knock you off your feet. The prayers of the city dwellers had gone unanswered, but not unnoticed. There was one listening, and did he care not for the noise and nattering. For was it now Uvelcra Himself who chose to find a suitable end to this. By His Hand Alone, was a great chasm opened underneath Absyrtus'vanima to allow some of the waters to drain. Though at the same time, the conflict between the two goddesses who had started these rains and the two other gods that had sought to stop it caused a great and terrible wave to rise from the depths, crashing into the city itself. The result was much of the city was literally washed into the very caverns and dragged by the weight of the water into the depths. The chasm that Uvelcra had made opened back into the depths of the seas, causing many treasures to be lost forever to the world above the waves. The silence was golden to Uvelcra, as he laughed to himself while the four lesser deities saw what they had wrought and wept piteously.

The mourning of Absyrtus'vanima went on for two fortnights, and those few who had survived somehow were taken by the gods to be transformed into their personal servants. Memories of the city were cleansed from their minds and hearts, etched into sacred tomes that were then scattered across Belariath. The grand creation of over five hundred years of effort, gone in fifty days. It was said there was an undersea city created not more than a day's sailing from that chasm by the merfolk, but I would know nothing of that. I have never tried to find anything under the waves, for I have no desire to drown because I purposely was stupid enough to find myself underwater. Though would it explain why some of those who live their lives in the oceans have items that were clearly of elven or dwarven make.

Never would I wish to be in a storm that would have me drown standing on dry land. And that is what happened with that city. Though, all of this is just legend and hearsay. Still, such stories tend to have an element of truth to them. I am a little curious about what happened to those three adventuring companies that went to find such a ruin. After all, they were quite well armed, with some of the more potent magics in Belariath at their beck and call. What could thoroughly remove no less than three armed groups like that with no survivors if weather was not at fault? Maybe they all turned on each other? Or perhaps something else entirely, like that city wasn't completely destroyed to begin with. Whatever it is, such is a mystery that I am not going to be the one to solve. There are some risks I do not find worth taking just for the sake of knowledge.

[mozenwrathe]

*One thing is for certain: nothing is absolutely certain within the land of Belariath. Death is a commodity to be bought and sold by the truly adventurous. Faith may get you noticed by your deity, but there is no way to tell if it shall be favourable or not. Great oceans could become deserts at the whim of those who rule above all life, and barbarians and scholars can sit together over precipice and discuss philosophy. Chaos is the only thing that Belariath cultivates on its own.*

Accurate, Authentic, and Reliable
by Dasan, Sheykan druid and lover of a beautiful swanmae.

could she be to me no less than wonderful
saviour of castaway spirit mine
for was I without direction or hope
until by chance I encountered her
within copse of magnificent trees
looking upon me with such innocent eyes
and speaking to me as equal and friend
before truly she knew of my own intentions
yet was I guarded for such length of time
did I almost lose her to own fears mine

her eyes are like the heavens brought down
places in marbles of crystal that shines
am I able to see futures with hope in them
instead of the drudge of day to day foolery
which was all I knew for so very long
surviving and not truly living a life
that was barely more than lie and mistake
through her have I found a better way
gaining strength in my heart and spirit
so whenever I look to stars above
do I see more than twinkling lights

shall not the storms of summer scare me
once would they have with their fury
lightning striking brick and tree with abandon
howling winds tearing at stone and shrubbery
wet and cold seeping into everything it touched
but knowing there is warmth waiting for me
in heart and spirit both of one so amazing
would I withstand all that and more easily
for her love is greater than tempests

sing out would I to heavens above
but know I all too well how sour my voice is
must I give thanks and praise in my own way
so spirits above know well am I more than thankful
and just as she serves Gaea with heart and breath
now do I seek the same for my own life
to give myself fateful meaning in this world
instead of wandering aimlessly like leaves on ponds
blown to wherever the wind takes them

could she whom all this is for see this parchment
would more than blush be shown upon her visage
as modesty within her heart is great
will never she understand how much she has done
even if I told her every word from my mouth to her ear
though would I sweetly and swiftly be too tempted to speak
instead trailing kisses down from earlobe to shoulder
holding her close to my own heart with silent smile
hoping my love for her would speak louder still
than terrible pounding of my heart within my chest

[mozenwrathe]

*The disappearance of Engwedhil was something that Prydain, despite all appearances, took a little hard. He had grown to like the slavegirl some. However, there were some things that could not be helped. After all, he had pretty much vanished from the face of Belariath for almost a decade in the eyes of those within Nanthalion. Perhaps she would return like he did eventually. Some did... and others never could. Still, the man had to press forward, though he would not be quite the same or quite as... forgiving as he had been before. Given the grim nature of The Hidden, that was saying something.*

With Her Words Will I Become Something New
by Prydain Mozenwrathe

without the songs of the spirits above will I not break
for while those in power sit upon their laurels and smile
here shall my hard work show itself at last in truth and action
though in scant minutes was mere spar turned into something else
the pride of three so-called soldiers before me offended
darkness slowly covering their spirits like nightfall over horizons
each of them waiting for opening in my defenses
for were they bouncing on the balls of their feet
waiting for moment to say "you are mine now"
to topple me from my stance with their practice swords
hoping their time to shine had truly come at last
and as I allowed my guard to slip away by moving clumsily
hold on my quarterstaff fumbling as I spun it slowly
did the trio finally charge me with venomous glee
waiting no longer for their opportunity to strike
only for each of them to hit the arena floor hard
the sounds of my staff against their legs did I hear
along with screams of "your weapon is enchanted"
while every breath I took was measured and embittered
against the wall of the arena did I press myself cautiously
every sense of my being screaming to press the attack
yet my skin crawled as if walked on by frost spiders
but was their no sense in appealing to these three
did I know nothing of the small bounty placed
or that I had been targeted by some minor nobleman
simply for being the man that I am
loved not by the rich and powerful or those adept in magics
and the three men themselves craving to impress him
wanted so badly to become part of his household
but would I be forced to dash their hopes and dreams
as there was nothing they held that would make me yield
the look on their faces as defeat arrives before them
and my quarterstaff finding their temples and thighs both
so by the end of the session that lasted far too long
it was clearly seen I was the superior fighter that day
nothing shall make me brag about such a thing to others
and those who be not arrogant in their skills understand
remaining standing when three others have fallen
this did I consider a grand day for myself indeed
my way of fighting proving me victorious at the last

I heard the arena master that day call me victorious
though quietly later he told me leave swiftly and without fanfare
so my bones and my blood did not find themselves strewn
as that one minor nobleman had done little but gnash his teeth
swearing in his seat "you will be broken at my feet"
will I not leave debts unpaid if I have option to
so have I since spoken with the arena master afterwards
taking a few nights of peace for myself first away from the town
and did I do no less than slide coins into the man's palm
before taking my leave again from arena and town both
not wishing to find myself cornered so I could breathe easy
that night did I depart for another region entirely
"there'd no more here for you" resounding in my heart
and though my will to succeed and surpass had not dampened
to find a better place to set down and recover was wiser
as the closure that nobleman sought would be my end
and knew I well I would seek out his head on a pikestaff
to leave and start anew was my best and only path
so off I went without horse or chariot to carry me
that town's name forever lost to memory and bitterness
echoing forever in my mind or what have you
about how one action may lead to many reactions around
even when all I wish to do is heal the wounds in my heart

[mozenwrathe]

*Some times you find yourself hunting for food, and run across something happening in the woods far more interesting. Other days, you find nothing at all, but at least get to relax and enjoy the breeze and the flowers. Of course, if you are just wanting meat for the table, a walk through the forest with no prey doesn't do you a lot of good at all. Which is where the markets come in: when you positively, absolutely, are having no luck hunting down your own elk or boar.*

Retreating Less By Collecting More
by Ekspiesche Mossberg, crossbowman and huntsman

could there be nothing else less sacred
than what I have managed to step in
but not in a physical sense is this footprint
one more of an emotional move forward
and then to land myself in such a mire
not one of oils and waters and reeds
yet is it far more binding than anything of the kind
for have those who call themselves Nobility
chosen to place themselves squarely in harm's way
having naught but squires used to the plains
traverse with them through the deeper woods
and will they consider any action by my people
interference and acts of blasphemy
yet shall they blame us whole and true
for any misfortune that will befall them within

could I simply pull out my hair a strand at a time
would such gestures cause me less undue agony
and possibly give me a better look besides
if done with some care and strategy like a sage
and would it solve absolutely nothing of my ills
for as I watch this prancing procession now
making their way down the largest road first
knowing full well where they plan to start their hunt
my insides churn with rage and regret
feeling will these be the days of the Red Roans
elk and deer both will be in fine form this year
while these high-collared and well-heeled heathens
shall make mockery of what some do for their living
with pathetic archery and slaves to carry their spoils

could I simply put my extra blanket over my head
masking the noise of their arrogant efforts with humming
pretend this all is nightmare to be endured
allowing common sense to flow past my window
like leaves on a spring rain-fed stream
whining in my head is not from sherry or mead
but the trill of badly played flutes and piccolos
undoubtedly the Nobles themselves doing such
for it is unlikely any would dare tell them otherwise
especially bards who truly know how to use such
as instruments and not as devices of torment
hopefully will they all be slain in the forests
eaten by feral trolls or captures by goblins
such baleful thoughts running through my mind
like rabbits hopping through the grasslands
allowing me to laugh at long last
turning over on my mattress and looking up
hoping the very worst happens to those
who consider themselves the absolute best