Role

Chapter 6

Toil, Toil, Toil and Trouble,
Flesh in the cauldron, boil and bubble,
It's time to boil, it's time to brew,
Using ingredients before us, pure and true.
The witch now gathers to stir the pot,
Boiling fat in a cauldron so hot.

Its time to craft from flesh al'a cart,
Picking and choosing to make the best fleshy tart.
The smell of cooking wafts through all the lands,
It is the Will of a witch this mixture now stands.
Stir the pot with a staff of ranger born,
And into it goes a list so forlorn.

Let us add a dab, a piece, a pinch,
Of pounds of flesh harvested through lynch.
First, a dabble of a piece of Aendir,
An elven invoker born of Fortress fare.
Stir quickly around, rend the fat off of the elf,
Perhaps its time for more from the shelf?

Now it's Vameth, an imperial dark elf born,
Its flesh so wispy, so easily torn.
A hunk of Soressh, the naked assassin,
Who pillages belongings and leaving nothing for askin.
A filet of Jethro, a shapeshifting Outlander mage,
Whose now known as Tero, now that is really strange.
Next a sprig of Dayna's skinny self,
Who sleeps in a village and is also an elf.
Blood from Alanabra the Outlander druid,
This witch bled her dry and and out came her fluid.

The cauldron howls, asking for more,
For the brew requires flesh born of bloody chore.
And more there is, in hunks and in pile,
The ingredients continue all in single file.
Now its Eben and Tjamilla, and Ugg too.
And even a black jackal, a shifter from the zoo.

The last, and best, is one named Gogoth,
A villager that burned bright and died like a sloth.
Whats left is the magic, of wild and Will,
which makes the cauldron boil then turn to chill.
Cold as the heart, and chilled to the bone.
All who went in must now seek atone.