I found an old text file the other day and figured I'dost this here for posterity. I hope some of the players of the mentioned characters are still around.

Here was my introduction to Thera, posted when Tarleton was still a lowbie. The rest of the poems will be posted in replies. (I tried to post this in history but something really wonky happened).

An Introduction, by Tarleton LeFleur

Dear readers,

Allow me to introduce myself.

I am Tarleton LeFleur, poet for the Empire. I have taken it upon myself to explore the romantic sides of the various factions in Thera. You will find - in the coming days, weeks, months and years - a series of works on the subject.

The first is already completed. It was titled "Where the Outlanders Hide Their Log Traps," and it was met with enjoyment. Please let me know what you think of the works that follow.

I look forward to your thanks. And in turn, I thank you for providing material for my art.

Yours truly, falsely or however you'd have me,

Tarleton LeFleur, Imperial Poet

HI-LA-RIOUS. I forgot all about that, thanks for reposting.
You didn't play a gnome Herald who issued 'weekly newspapers', by any chance? I would love to reread those as well

"Who Says the Magic is Gone?"

Valued readers, be advised. This tale is not for the faint of heart. I had failed to best mighty Ghrummin with my sword, so here I reach for my pen.

* * *

Listen, dear readers, to this story of lust,
set in a Village built near a city of dust,
where Magic is lost and their numbers have tripled.

Commander Woldrun cut down a mage and his muscles rippled.
The dwarf Ghrummin swung a hammer and his foe was crippled.
His might was too much for the commander to miss.

So with an enticing hiss,
Woldrun begged Ghrummin for a kiss,
and soon things got out of control.

Behind the shrine, the two mis-sized lovers stole,
as they frantically raced toward their goal.
The Village air filled with their sweaty brine.

"PULL MAH BEARD!" Ghrummin cried, feeling so fine,
"And dig inta mah deep, dwarven mine!"

With a whinny like a horse,
Woldrun delivered a blow of deadly force,
and the pair collapsed to the ground, writhing.

Even after all these years of fighting,
the Battleragers somehow keep things exciting.

Who says the Magic is gone?

* * *

Your hearts, your souls, your laughs for the Empire.

Tarleton LeFleur, Imperial Poet

nt

EDITOR'S NOTE: Only after publishing this note to all, I found out that Cabnil was female.

The Sea of Despair was especially sad,
stained red by Villagers bloodthirsty and mad.

The Key of the Nexuns had been gleefully pillaged
and rushed right back to the Battlerager's Village.

Meter Cabnil and Rhyme Calbaseeti fled into hiding,
Bloody and bruised from hours of fighting.

And just when they thought they couldn't feel more sour
They felt a shudder in their Cabal power.

"How can we win now that the Bond is gone?"
lamented the transmuter Cabnil, feeling withdrawn.

The half-elf Calbaseeti sighed, ready to resign,
when Cabnil pepped up and said, "Everything will be fine!"

He had an idea and he KNEW it would work,
and to top it all off it involved quite a perk!

"To return the Key of which we both are fond,
We'll need to make use of a new kind of Bond!"

Back at the victorious Village, the Battleragers drank.
They partied and laughed, they ate and stank.

Suddenly the massive giant cried out in pain,
So they picked up their weapons and ran out again.

What they saw outside stopped them dead in their tracks
and forced quite a few of them to roll on their backs.

Cabnil stood, his hands on his hips,
while Calbaseeti, on her knees as in prayer, made use of her lips.

"Don't stop now!" Cabnil said,
singing moaning spells as his face turned bright red.

"The Bond is working,
Just keep on slurping!"

So surprised were the villagers that their spellbane dropped,
and under Cabnil’s spells, their bones and brains popped.

The villagers fled and the giant fell,
and said the mage to his choking bondmate,
"I think that worked out well."

"The Ballad of the Fortlander: There Can Be Only Eight"

Dear beloved loyal subjects, whose support and smiles give me reason to wake up every morning,

I submit to you a tale of courage on the part of a mysterious band of naturalists. Their ways are strange, but not for us to judge. Screwing animals, I assure you, is quite normal in some cultures.

But when considering the immense bravery these noble savages exhibit, the questionable act of bestiality can, and should, be overlooked. Commonly, this odd tribe comes to the defense of the Fortress of Light.

Look on, dear readers, if you're prepared for a profile in love (brotherly and otherwise) and courage!

* * *

Deep within the rugged wilds, the savage mystics waited
with Thar-Eris on their minds and a hunger yet unsated.

They panted and grunted in the mountains, eyes trained on the passes
as gently drifting snowflakes settled on their coats and bare asses.

Suddenly, the free-spirited trio spotted their prey,
and cast aside their distractions to prepare for a waylay.

The elf Sunwarden Tangni lovingly removed a fist
from the rear of a badger with a passionate kiss.

The cloud giant Harbinger Quird squatted down on the ground
and groaned as he pushed out a feisty squirrel he had found.

And Nightreaver Sulye the ranger-cat licked the filth off her coat
after she dismounted a confused and traumatized mountain goat.

Below, in the snowy mountain pass, a shivering Imperial trudged on,
his hands on his blades and his eyes scanning for Light-spawn.

Just up ahead was the stone-walled Fortress of Light,
full of paladins and invokers awaiting a fight.

The Outlanders watched on as the Maran cried out,
and readied their weapons and calmed their doubts.

The battle raged fierce beyond the Redhorn Gate,
while the Outlanders courageously lay in wait...

A panting elf ran out into the mountains and screamed,
"Hope is lost! We five are dying! May Baerinika see us redeemed!"

At that, the Outlanders stepped out from their cover,
each leaving behind his respective animal lover.

Relief washed over the elf's face,
Said he: "Let's put this Imperial in his place!"

The battle raged on and the tide finally turned,
and the Imperial retreated with terrible sunburn.

And the Fortress that night held a special celebration,
sharing with its wild guests tales full of exaggeration.

The savages and their hosts drank away their hesitations
until the elves and storm giants gave in to their temptations!

So much happened by the time the night was through,
leaving bodily fluids to mix with the sweet morning dew.

And the smiling, the Maran and Acolytes limped and smiled
at the mysterious trio who showed them how to go wild!

But it was time for them to return to lands unspoiled.

So with parting kisses
the Outlanders returned to nurture the unknown wilds
of the Redhorn Gate.

And the squirrels shrieked in terror.

* * *

Your hearts, your souls, your laughs for the Empire.

Tarleton LeFleur, the Jester King of Romance and Emperor of Thera

Dearest fans,

You know me for my humorous work, but even I must on occasion tackle serious subjects.

Please, dear readers, ready your tissues, but try not to weep. At the conclusion of this poem, ask the nearest Imperial Recruiter or Citizen for the Blood Oath so you may more easily sleep.

* * *

Your beloved author relaxed alongside an Imperial roadblock,
drinking enough wine to render the sluttiest Herald unable to hiplock.

A filthy old ascetic shuffled in,
so plain, thin and poor, it's a sin!
And he grumpily held out an empty hand
to frowning Centurions and this famous one-man band.

Sang your favorite bard: "Say there, kind guy,
would you like to get by?
We could work out a deal,
if you'd listen to my spiel.

I offer you three gifts from the Great Theran Empire,
generosity you won't find from the Fortress nor the Spire.
It's called the Blood Oath, and it means passage for free,
protection from savages, and purpose for thee!"

The old man angrily shook his head,
and as he hobbled off, to me he said:
"I have no coins, but I am not poor,
I value my soul, and I could not want more."

Days later, your storyteller saw a scene that made his heart sink.
Take heed, dear readers, and may this make you think.
The soulful old man had gruesomely passed on,
sprawled on the cold grass of a public lawn.

Above his corpse, his floating ghost wailed,
"Oh, Lord Tarleton, all my life I had failed!
Heaven, it turns out, is a terrible bore.
In my dying days, I should have hired a whore!

"The Gods of Light have us virgins get together to stare and smile.
The food's always good and the weather's never vile.
But there's no happiness without sorrow nor reward without a fight.
In an eternity without Darkness, it's no fun to be of the Light!"

The spirit's words made your infamous author wince,
providing material for reflection ever since.
To think the old man denied himself power or pleasure
only to die without any success to measure.

Dear readers, once my flame finally goes out,
I'd love to spend eternity with my fans about.
So to give value to this life and the next, both,
I humbly suggest that you take the Blood Oath.

* * *

Your hearts, your souls, your laughs for the Empire.

Tarleton LaFleur, Imperial Jester and War Master

< 21> Thu Jul 9 02:22:31 2009
From : Tarleton LeFleur
To : all
Subject: "Engineering Marvels of the Third Age: The Scions' Chasm"

Dear beloved readers,

This poem was commissioned by a certain Dwarf-God who has reportedly been
claimed by a certain fiery Feline-Goddess.

To those who would call this story historically inaccurate, I pose to you the
following question: So?

Remember: If we repeat it enough, it will become perfectly accurate.

* * *

Lord Twist took a book
titled, "MAGIC: Don't you look!"
and hid it in the desert for the ages.

But a nosey magi
with wandering eyes
one night stumbled across its pages.

He read every word
aloud then he heard
a rumbling deep and scary.

A sick feeling came,
his curiosity to blame,
and that's when things got hairy.

His bowels shook
as the Magic took
and he dropped the book he toted.

It was a terrible sight:
he grunted all night
until finally his bowels exploded.

And that, my friends,
is not where my tale ends.
In fact, it's only the start.

That was the story
of the Scions' first glory.
Yes, the Chasm was born of a fart!

* * *

Your hearts, your souls, your laughs for the Empire.

Tarleton LeFleur, Imperial Jester

Lord Enlilth brings all the toys to the bard
and my Lord
Is better than yours
Damn right,
He's better than yours
I'd promote you, but I'd have to charge

I know you want it.
The thing that makes me
what the ladies go crazy for.
It's the Blood Oath.
The way I sign.
I think it's time.

Ha ha - ha ha ha ha
Oath it up.
Ha ha - Ha ha ha ha
The Blades are waiting.

Lord Enlilth brings all the toys to the bard
and my Lord
Is better than yours
Damn right,
He's better than yours
I'd promote you, but I'd have to charge

* * *

Your hearts, your souls, your laughs for the Empire.

Tarleton LeFleur, Imperial Jester

Dear readers,

Here is a tale for all the single conjurers. Remember: If you like it then you better put a binding on it.

* * *

Deep in the desert, the Scions plot.
Well, one of them, at least. That's all they've got.

"I must find a dark bride to marry," he said through his cowl.
He looked at the Archmage and grunted and scowled.

Deep in this Chasm, away from the sunlight above,
how would he ever find someone to love?

A real bad woman would be a nice fit.
He'd give her a ring, if he hadn't despoiled it.

And then, like lightning, the idea struck:
He'd conjure a demon, one he could... fu-... erm... marry!

With all of his mana and all of his might,
he was certain he'd gotten the binding spell right.

He said, "I do," and the demon's maw dripped.
Our Scion brought his bride to the Meeting Room and stripped.

He lunged at the creature with ferocious desire,
and just hours later, his crotch was on fire.

Up above, nomads could hear his moans,
as his parts rotted away and he died all alone.

* * *

Your hearts, your souls, your laughs for the Empire.

Tarleton LeFleur, Imperial Poet

Dear Readers,

Close your eyes and imagine a world without Evil. See a land where the Fortress has accomplished its goal: The forces of Darkness are vanquished, and the only red auras in Thera are found in the warm glow of fireplaces.

Below is a tale that takes place in this world, shortly after the fall of the Imperial Palace, and long after the fall of the Scions...

* * *

In the white Fortress behind the Maran Tara'bal
A giant named Humbert leaned against a wall.
He screamed in delight
When a light silver-white
revealed the god Shokai, bored out of His mind.

Said the Phoenix, "The Azure Fields are here, now,
but they're nearly empty - there's nary a cow!
So would you go forth and father
More goodies for me to bother?
I suggest you Lightforge something between your legs."

Humbert ran and he went on his mission heaven-sent.
He found the elf maid Ailinilia when his legs were nearly spent.
"Hey there, big guy,"
she smiled, so wry,
"I could use a good romp in the sack!"

Answered Humbert, "Alas, all the wicked men are dead,
so you must settle for me instead.
My hands are clammy
and my thighs are hammy
but Padwei says that I've got a nice smile.

"Now, please lie down on your back,
and do not mock the size that I lack.
This is my first try at procreating.
At long last, no more masturbating!
Now hold still while I... OHHH! -- Do you have a towel?

Ailinilia didn't flinch.
She felt not a tingle, a nip nor a pinch.
She stood up and frowned
at her soiled elf-gown
And ran to Hell to find an Imperial who could please her.

* * *

Tarleton LeFleur, Imperial Poet

nt

< 6> Mon Jun 8 21:34:01 2009
From : Tarleton
To : all
Subject: "Where the Outlanders Hide Their Log Traps"

Prepare, dear readers, for a frightening tale
about wild-kin of ages lost.
They live in the forests north of Arkham,
and at quite the minimal cost!

Few can find their hiding spots in the bushes,
away from cities and towns.
But seasoned adventurers know how to find them:
listen carefully for mangled pronouns.

These banes of the civil strike fear into hearts
of folks like me and you.
They also thrust their most ticklish parts
into beasts like dogs and ewes.

They forsake the gold that most all of us hold,
and smash it to little pieces.
Their currency, between you and me,
is in the Huntress's most intimate creases.

So if ever you see an Outlander,
you now know what to do.
Offer him a nice, warm animal,
so his lust might spare you!

* * *

Your hearts, your souls, your laughs for the Empire

Tarleton LeFleur, Imperial Poet