In a time long ago, there was a boy named Alexander and a girl named Catherine. They lived in adjacent cottages within an idyllic little village. When he was seven, Alexander spent the whole day searching for the perfect violet, and when he found it, he presented it to Catherine. When she was ten she sat for three days while Alexander was ill with a fever, holding his hand and whispering reassurances. When they were thirteen it came time for Alexander to take up an apprenticeship with the blacksmith in the next villages and so they parted with bittersweet promises to meet each other once again. One year passed, and each day they wrote a letter, every week they wrote a poem and every month they met beneath the apple tree in the meadow between the villages. In the second year, Alexander traveled with his mentor, and had no time to write. He returned in the middle of the third year, his apprenticeship finished. They agreed to meet by the lake at dusk, and he found Catherine there, gazing into the water. He hesitated for a moment, standing in silence behind her. Then he spoke: "Turn around, dear Catherine that I may see your face and how it has changed, and so that you may see mine" "Oh Alexander, I am so glad that you have returned, but I fear that you must have found another whose is fairer than I could ever be, and that when I turn I will see it in your eyes." To this, Alexander said nothing, but simply placed his hand gently on her shoulder and drew her tenderly around. They stood for a moment, gazing in each other's eyes, and then Alexander spoke once more. "I have traveled the world and seen many girls, but none have I seen more beautiful, nor whose simplest words can set my heart afire as does yours. Let us marry, and be forever in bliss." And with that, they embraced, unmoving until long after the moon had risen. They were soon married and living in the city, where Alexander set up a small smithy. Every day he brought home flowers, and every day she soothed his knotted muscles until the strains of the day were gone. They supped, and they played, and they went to bed with intense passion. In a year, a daughter was born, and they raised her, their hearts at ease and their spirits elated. Then, late one day, while Alexander was just leaving the smithy, and their daughter out to play, a wounded soldier knocked on the door, his pants soaked in blood. "Help me, he begged" and though she was at first frightened, Catherine brought him to lie down. She went to the kitchen to fetch a basin and some cotton, and when she returned she found the man in a state of undress, and clutching at a wound in the crease between his hip and leg. She hesitated at the doorway, but when the man groaned and blood flowed from between he fingers he'd clamped across the wound, she hurried forward. Gingerly, she wiped away the blood, and began stuffing the wound with cotton. Of course, at this moment Alexander entered the bedroom, flowers in hand. Seeing his true love bent over the naked form of another man, he was stricken, and the heartbreak in his eyes nearly drove Catherine to her knees. Before she recovered her senses, Alexander turned and fled the home, the flowers dropped carelessly at the doorstep. He ran, heedless of the cries of his wife outpaced quickly behind him. When he finally tired, he wandered the streets in a daze, until he reached the docks and went into a nearby tavern. What started as ale progressed rapidly to whiskey, one shot turned into two, and soon he was downing shot after shot until his senses were gone and he passed out on the floor. A gang of slavers was in the tavern that night, having come ashore. With his formidable size, Alexander posed an inviting mark for placement in the galley. They made as if they were his friends, carrying him outside where he was bound and gagged and taken aboard. Shoved roughly into the hold, Alexander found his struggles were futile, and that he could not escape. For the next three years he would know nothing but the whip and the cadence. Three exceptionally long years, and then at least, an opportunity to escape, which he seized, fleeing the ship and bleeding into the milling crowds in the port of a strange land. Far from home and with no money or prospects he wandered for a day before resolving to join a sailing crew in the hope of eventually getting home. For three more years he worked, scrubbing the decks and learning the sailor's life, always hoping to get home. And one day he did. His shipped pulled in to the dock, and he rushed to the house with nervous anticipation, but Catherine was gone. In tears he returned to the ship, which left port the next day. Alexander embraced the numb comfort of the bottle and the rough life of a poor sailor, his hope crushed. In the city so far from the village of her birth, Catherine had waited for as long as she could, the only man she'd ever love absent. When the money ran out and she was evicted from her home and with a young child to care for, she tried to find work, but she didn't know how to find any, and had no skills to offer. On the verge of starvation she found herself with no choice but to offer herself to the sailors at the dockside. Feeling ashamed and dirty, she went home and wept, but soon that little money had run out. As the months and years pressed on, the dull clink of filthy coins kept her alive and her child fed, but the hard life of a dockyard prostitute extracted a terrible toll on her body and mind. They would meet only once more, sixteen years after the day they'd last seen each other. He was coming in from an unsavory voyage; she was seeking one last customer with whom to spend the night. She approached him, he handed her the coins and they went to bed. When it was finished they turned from each other, concealing their tears and shame as they'd done so many nights before. In the morning they parted without a word, and never saw each other again. --- In the morning The Paladin awoke. He made his devout prayers, donned his shining, jeweled armor, took up his swords, fetched his diamonds and his sapphires, his sack of gold, his potions, his scrolls and wands, his pristine surcoat, his banner and his whistle. He summoned several elite dwarven guardsmen to stand in the way should harm come to his house in his absence and left to set about the business. He then summoned his squire and set out upon the day's questing. He travelled for severals hours, passing through a tiny village when a run-down shack caught his eye. "Set me down squire, for I must investigate this place." he said with great nobility. With a grunt, the squire lifted the Paladin from his shoulders and placed him on the ground. The Paladin approached the building, extending his hands and sniffing curiously at the woodwork. Sensing the taint of evil, he entered the dwelling and set about cleansing it. When he had finished, he spied an old man hiding beneath a table. Seizing the man by the arm, the Paladin hauled him to his feet and gazed virtuously at the shaking man. "Why do you quiver so, sir?" inquired the Paladin righteously. "You've murdered my daughter, raped my son and stolen my cat, I tremble at the thought of what you might do to me." replied the man timidly. "Fear not, fellow, A paladin is a man of mercy, and so I will not harm you, but instead I will permit you to bask in my radiant majesty. I will even allow you to keep your cat." he replied serenely. After an hour or so of allowing the man to drink in his magnanimity he rose and strode away from the village. As he approached the spot where he had parted company with his companion, he observed the squire being savaged by three orcs. Gripping his many swords tightly, The Paladin burst into swift and decisive action. As fast as his legs could carry him he hurtled towards his quarry, preparing a worthy battlecry for the occasion. "Barman" he cried out, reaching his destination, "bring me mead, for I have just run three miles and am very thirsty!" For the next hour the barman obligingly brought tankards of mead to the Paladin's table as he zealously recounted the greatness of his deeds. After downing several flagons of mead The Paladin felt a need to relieve himself. He rose shakily, and in a bold voice proclaimed "I have had my fill and will go, it gladdens my heart to know that I have been able to reward your hospitality with the comfort of my presence!". With that, the faithful servant of the light stumbled to the porch where he began to urinate gloriously. When he had finished, he wandered across the street to the Paladin's guild. After dusting off the cobwebs that had accumulated on two good friends of his, he suggested an outing to thwart evil. They agreed, and proceeded out the door, falling to the ground in a pile as they walked directly into a passing beggar. "What is the meaning of this infamy!?" they cried in perfect unison as the man wriggled free from their combined weight. "I was just walking and you bumbled into me!" said the man with an angry scowl. Sizing up their adversary, the paladins knew that they must confront this adversary with their combined might if they hoped for the light to prevail. The beggar began limping away slowly as the paladins spent the next ten minutes selecting their weapons. But he couldn't get far, so with mighty strikes of irreproachable dedication, the paladins struck down the erstwhile agent of darkness. Exchanging high-fives with zealous abandon, they set about picking through the man's posessions. The Paladin was first to seize a handful of copper coins and loudly proclaim "I take these in the name of the light to put to a good and wholesome purpose." But one of the others immediately spoke up "now see here you horse-faced pigeon sitter, I have a greater purpose to put them to, so hand them here." "How dare you defame my pure cause you mutinous charlattan!" responded The Paladin, quickly stuffing the coins into one of his less-full sacks. Much bickering ensued, but once The Paladin had knocked the other two unconscious the street was quiet again. Exhausted from his many righteous deeds that day, the Paladin proceeded to his Lord's shrine, where he began to pray. Soon, a radiant light exploded from behind the altar, revealing the presence of one of the miscellaeneous gods of the light. "You have done well this day, The Paladin and I will reward you." Giddy with anticipation The Paladin hopped to his feet and did as he was told. Instantly he was bathed in the radiant power of his supreme patron's essense. The Paladin intoned a prayer of thanks as he wiped the Lord's purest virtue from his chin. --- Dirge Number 1 Born in to this world with golden hair and lovely curls never found a place her parents thought her a disgrace sleeping in the street the Slayer thought she was a treat something to destroy this little girl her name was Joy Joy is dead Joy is dead And only mourning in her stead with hair brightest red laughing free from morning 'til bed she spoke with gladness saying there's no need for sadness despite all such fuss once the truth of Joy's death she sussed this little girl Hope chose to hang herself with a rope Hope has died Hope has died her merry words were naught buy lies. With Joy and Hope gone Glory went out to play on the lawn she was once well-known but she found that those times had flown all the kids ignored or taunted her when they were bored they would not desist and so she just ceased to exist Glory's deceased Glory's deceased and nobody cares in the least Joy and Hope and Glory too all died and someday so will you --- The Nightfall comes, its horrid pace a thundering applause The grinning hordes begin their race to end all natural laws Infernal beasts, corrupt and wrong erupt from shattered gates Amid the darkling moors they throng with thirst no well can slake The shadow hordes of nether realms from every crevice glide A mortal terror overwhelms the victims woe betide A rain of blood, diseased and rank pours down on every soul With rotted flesh, and eyes gone blank they freeze in deathly cold As hopeless men, struck numb with blight by grievous wounds are slain These wretched terrors of the night feast quickly on the pain A chilling mist, creeps in upon the wrecked and shattered land This endless dark, of life withdrawn foretold in ancient plan. --- Skitterings of sands stretch in southern stands Ill-fated I'm interred impatient, ire incurred A hellish, howling gale hammers health from hale Amid this mortal mire met Mayhem Master's smile to deliver or deride the diety decides with polished, peary phrasing, this parleyed poem praise him The Master of Mayhem is so great and wise that lollipops and unicorns shoot out from his eyes Everything about him is golly-gee, just swell if he weren't my best friend, my life would be a hell Oh M-M-M-M-Master of M-M-M-M-Mayhem If he hated madmen, he'd Ki-Ki-Ki-Ki-Slay them M-M-M-M-Master of M-M-M-M-Mayhem he Instead does portraits; He dr-dr-dr portrays them His children are super and very well behaved for though he's nice and has no vice, his wrath can not be braved That he was my savior just giddies me with pride And by the way, his mouth is very, very, very wide Oh M-M-M-M-Master of M-M-M-M-Mayhem he doesn't love the lawmen, won't Heh-heh-heh-heh praise them M-M-M-M-Master of M-M-M-M-Mayhem he love games of fortune, he wi-wi-wi-wi plays them His greatness is greater than the greatest great but if you poke his belly, he will get quite irate he'll trick you, or stump you, with a riddle deep then toss you in a boiling pot and giggle while you steep Oh M-M-M-M-Master of M-M-M-M-Mayhem when his cakes have risen, he'll fr-fr-fr-fr glaze them M-M-M-M-Master of M-M-M-M-Mayhem he eats with great abandon, but vo-vo-vo-vo stays trim Master of Mayhem Master of Mayhem Master of Mayhem Master of Mayhem... --- Do you have a rhyme to offer at this time for I haven't got a clue what a human ought to do when the world is coming down and the only quiet sound is the tinkling of chains and gurgling of veins where blood will cease to flow while you scream please no and nobody will listen as your muscles start to stiffen there alone you lie blankly staring to the sky as they pass you by uncaring filled with panic and despairing of hopes that were their own smashed by troubles in their home these constant pains that hurt us they never break the surface the grief we all must share but yet stoicly we stare to avoid the meeting eyes that would cause us to realize that there's nothing shared but pain with not but self to blame and our demise we'd seek if we were not so weak yet we lie in market square hoping someone dares crush us with a rock or cleave us head to hock so we plead that death will lead to peace of nonexistance Post-Script A Comprehensive List of Things to be Thankful For * That every day you have lived is one fewer that you have left to live. ==== *A large cart pulled by defeated looking men comes rumbling up the road bearing the heraldry of the Theran messenger service. It constructed simply, being little more than a rectangular box on wheels. A dark a red curtain of crushed velvet surrounds all four sides, with a thick black rope securing the edges together. As the cart bumps and rattles along, the curtain shifts to offer glimpses of a compartment of darkly stained wood. As they draw near you, the men slow to a stop and offer you a glimpse inside. Untieing the rope, they pull back the curtains to reveal the contents of the cart. Inside is a small figure on its knees, which are forced wide by a block of obsidian. A leather loop secured to the obsidian block draws the torso forward from the base of the ribcage. The bent-over angle of the body to the hips reverses swiftly as the spine arches back painfully as another loop of leather secured somewhere behind the figure yanks the head back to face the sky. The hands are sown to the sides of the head, with the elbows drawn out at an angle by wires anchored to the sides of box. Numerous subtlely placed wires secure the figure, preventing any shifting. The figure's wears no clothing and the skin appears to be a quilt of palm-sized patches of skins. To the discerning eye, elven and storm giant skins dominate, though human, dwarven and several other varieties are represented as well. That patchwork sags very slightly in some places, as if the supporting structure has shrunk from the inside. An aura of dark magic is almost palpable surrounding the figure, and after a few moments, you realize that the weak rise and fall of the shoulders means that someone is still alive inside. The mouth is gaping wide, and the patchwork appears to be stitched to the edges. The expression, though intense, is hard to read, hinting at profound anguish and excquisite delight in equal measure. Numerous copper placards have been nailed into the manufactured flesh, each etched with fine lettering and a number. Following the numbers in order, you begin at the head, and read clockwise: Pale, cold, and horribly beautiful Her eyes a vice, her voice a whip Is this desire or revulsion? A gliding step brings her near That smile, those teeth, my god Do I shiver with anticipation or with dread? A flicker in the dark, and an outcry of flesh Her mouth upon me, cold lips against my neck Am I in agony, or is this ecstasy? From her grip fallen, released at last Huddled on the floor, dazed and unthinking Which is the feeling, euphoria or despair? Fading into shadow, she dissapears The shaking begins, the weeping follows Are these tears of relief, or of longing? Her image, her scent, her touch These memories crowd the present Is this obsessive fantasy, or neurotic dread? Crimson flashes, tortured screams metallic scents and sudden chills Evoke either nostalgia or regret, but which? ---- When you are young, you see a pretty girl. She flits about, hair flying, a giggle light upon the wind. You approach her, she shuns you, a look of disgust on her face. She hates you, and so you hate yourself. Love is a demon with the face of an angel Love is a rose with more thorns than petals. Love is pit baited with infatuation. Love is a testament to its own futility. A fevered couple makes love desperately. In the morning the magic will have drained away, leaving only awkwardness and regret. They will not speak again. They will avoid each other, wondering how they could stoop so low. Love is the scent of failure soaking into satin sheets. Love is an embroidered slave collar. Love is an empty bowl of gruel. Love is addictive pain. A man and wife sit on the porch, senility blanking their minds. A lifetime of love washed away to nothing by the tide of age. They no longer recognize each other. A few fleeting moments of deja vu are the tattered remnants of their lives together. They will die alone. Love does not endure. Love is not forever. Love cannot overcome any barriers. Love is not the answer. --- Names are curious things they signify, define and shape they are forgotten and rememberd spoken, scream or scribed A man that once you knew a woman who wore blue the cat your mother owned the emperor dethroned memories of youth flood back with every death showing me the proof of every wasted breath ---- I am on old sock worn out, useless, threadbare and stained a rag to wipe the floor. My words are rotting limes bitterness girded, befouled within, an utter dissapointment A harsh rasping, a buzzing hum my song is a slave-collar choking and humiliating. What have I ever done? What will I leave behind? When I am gone, who will notice? I am a useless gift unwanted, undesired taking up space clutter to be disgarded. My heart is a weatherd stone exposed, worn-out numbed and cold I have done such wrong. A hissed pleading, a muted question My life is a whisper Shushed into silence.