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BALLADS OF CAELERETH |
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THE
CURSE
OF TACUNIJA
On Hèckra's slopes, a princeling elf
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THE
BIRCH
MAIDEN
The moon and stars are bright tonight, shine well
across my way,
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THE
SIEGE
OF BARDAVOS
“There was a battle
“Thaehavos gates
“‘Ah woe is me,’
“A span of days
“There was a battle…
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EGHANA'S
LAY
The men tried to push her and
shove her away, |
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THE
MÁR'GÉF,
THE BALLAD
OF THE QUALLIAN
(A
ballad describing the breaking-off of the Quallian. |
THE
SEVEN
OF THALAMBATH
BY
GEAN
FIREFEET
Eight came to this place,
back then
At the end of the War of Chosen
Seven remained in centuries after
Waiting for the resurrection of their master
Many a legend goes about these creatures
About what they have as special features
For changing of shape and form they can
Be anything known to common men
They kept on guard at day and night
Defending his castle with all their might
With ferocious steel and blazing fire
They slowly built a small empire
A city arose, mysterious and dark
Full of intrigues and mystical marks
Many came and many more went
But never did the strong walls bend
For no enemy, strong or smart
Did crush the Seven at the heart
Of their power, their very strength
No one succeeded in the end.
THE
CURSE
OF THE ORCS
BY
RALHAG
In this land, there is a fear,
If you're not careful, it does draw near.
There are no tales of a greater foe,
If one exists I do not know.
With an awful fury it rapes the land,
It does it’s work like no man can.
The orcs, the orcs,
They outnumber my men,
They attack our fort,
One man against ten!
The fight rages on for days and days,
The orcs, they come, wave upon wave,
My men grow tired, they grow weak,
The orcs keep coming, it's blood they seek,
If not for the sun, we’d get no rest,
For in the cool of night, orcs fight best.
On the fourth full day, of gross bloodshed,
Our prayers were answered, help finally did arrive.
As the units showed, all the cowardly orcs fled.
But this prayer was forsaken, for few men survived.
The curse of the orcs is a vicious one,
They kill everything, they don’t spare none.
But man will conquer, they will win,
For to give up hope, is a mortal sin.
THE
FALL
OF
MERINDE
BY
SILFER
DARKFLARE
To arms, to arms
The dragon comes!
To arms, my friends!
Protect what runs!
Under burning sky will the battle be fought
By power and will, magic and steel
Shall the fate of Merinde be wrought!
The last defence, by Avin commanded
He, the last lord, himself so demanded
To secure the future, and have peace at last
Yet, even he could not undo the past.
Every last man defending stands tall
By fire and hatred, darkness and light
As the battle draws near, they fall!
The dragon calls forth a terrible sight:
Undeads and horrors of magical might
Forth they charge, dreadful their greed
The powerful magic strikes with deceit.
Avin, the Lord, blows his enchanted horn
Wizardry, might and draconian blight
All is dispelled from the sworn!
But the terrible magic is soon cast anew
And the men of the defence are scarcely, a few
The end is nearing, yet Avin, not fearing
Blindly goes on, through the enemy tearing!
Soon Avin is left, his mind set, but not clear
Eternal flame, yet all the same:
Avin goes on, defying fear!
In rage and hatred, with an icy voice
Avin does not give the dragon a choice
Reminding him of the ancient kings
The empty threat vengefully rings...
Yet the dragon calls magic of corruptive lies
Bespelling, repelling and luring
Whatever Avin tries!
Soon, courage faltered; Avin was spelled
And tightly by the dragon's magic held
He began to believe the lies of the beast
Soon, the dragon Nagir would feast!
But a powerful call resounded clear:
Ancient kings, or the distant winds
Destroying the spell and removing the fear!
Still filled with rage, Avin could see
That all would be lost, if he was to flee
His spear flew soundly towards the beast
At last, Merinde would have peace...
But lightning struck Avin where he stood
Might and light, united in fight
Now the earth holds Avin's blood!
Nothing was left on the merciless shore
The battle was ended, the land defended
Yet, Merinde was no more...
THE
AGENSTORN
BY
RAYNE
AVALOTUS
Treasures grasped in dead man’s fingers,
Within his stagnant grave so lingers,
In the ice-pure waters beyond the shore;
His voice is silenced forever more.
With billowed sails and steady way
The Agenstorn had seized the sunny days,
And with its treasures and crew aboard,
Set its path to its home and lord.
But Baveras may be cold as stone,
And wished not for the treasures to be shown
To arrogant women, pompous men,
And would not let the ship return again.
Under Cold Baveras’s strict command
Grothar led clouds in a steady band.
Above the ship these cloud did form
And with a clap of thunder, began to storm.
The threat’ning waves began their raids,
And rain fell sharp as silver blades.
The winds the once proud canvas tore,
Sky echoing with thunder's roar.
And the ship sunk down to the ocean depths.
And a hundred men there found their deaths.
A cold smile graced the Goddess’ face;
The Agenstorn had found its resting place.
Years have passed but none do know
What lies with the ship that sits below.
None know of the treasure that there lingers
Grasped within a dead man’s fingers.
THE
LEGEND
OF MARTIN SWIFTSWORD
BY
SHAREED
Martin Swiftsword (1521-1561
a.S.), initially son of a wandering merchant for whom
he worked as a guard, was
mainly responsible for the founding of the so-called
Swiftsword Mercenaries,
which developed from a rebel group he led. He taught and
ed the forces who
founded the guild from the lands of the Kuglimz to the Eyelian Kingdom,
where he also found his death.
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The sun shone upon the shore
the sand glittered like many diamonds
and the bite in the air
foretold of a mighty force
a force of destruction.
In the hills unseen were camped many rebels
A trap set to surround the enemy.
Their eyes shining like so many fires
a single man stood at their head
ready to lead and ready to die.
And so begins the story of
Martin Swiftsword.
Martin surveyed the land
and even as he heard the clang of armour
the enemy rounded the bend.
The hearts of the rebels
beat as one to the lead of Martin's.
Upon the air a tenseness rose
and the hills turned bright as the sun
as many a sword reflected her rays.
Surrounded they were
the enemy numerous
and so began
the final battle.
The rebels’ swords flicked in and out
slick with blood
as many an enemy was slain
but not without loss
The enemies’ numbers like waves
crashing over the rebels.
For hours the tide
came in and out
redder and redder each time
and the final battle still in the fighting.
Martin Swiftsword stood
a great figure amidst the battle
and lent hope to the remaining rebels.
And though they fought a losing battle
they fought with unending vigor.
Finally Martin drew his sword
the fabled Toroc
which fueled the fires in his eyes
and with the strength of the rested
Martin waded into the enemies.
Still the battle raged on
an unending cycle
of slashing
and cutting
the soldiers began to slow
and no one could fight on.
From the darkness a horn was heard
and the enemy retreated
And so passed the first day of the final battle.
The night was not a restful one
dappled with fires and moans
and talk among the rebels of how well they had fought
but the air rang with whetstones
as they awaited the dawn.
The Injèrá
came over the hills.
A mighty cry was heard
and amidst the enemy horde
a monstrous demon appeared.
Nor had the enemy commander
been idle during the long night
it seemed.
If you defeat my champion
we shall surrender
so said the enemy commander with scorn.
Martin looked upon the demon.
Three times his height
with massive clawed feet
crunching the ground as it paced
and pustuled black skin over its body.
It had wings, large wings
like those of a bat
seeming only to weigh it down
in fact barely able
to support their own weight.
Its face was pure evil
a mighty piglike face
cracked in half
with a gruesome sneer.
All was observed in the moment
in which Martin drew his sword Toroc.
The enemy laughed
for few thought he could best
a beast such as this
and so began the end of the final battle.
For days it seemed
though only minutes in truth
they circled and paced
watched for a weakness
each sensing a formidable strength.
The demon moved first
with a mighty sweep of a clawed hand
to rip at the hero’s head.
Martin jumped back
the points raking his hair
and so began the fight.
Slashing and whirling
Toroc flashed through the air
slashing and whirling
the demonic claws cut only wind
To the edge of the bluff they staggered
the demon kicked out
and its claws raked Martin’s chest.
His forces cried in horror
as he fell to his knees.
Martin’s sword became a staff
to bring him back to his feet
as he retreated toward the edge.
The demon sensed his final victory
slowly walked forward
to strike the final blow.
Its claws shone brightly against the sun.
Martin spread his arms as in prayer
the blood free-flowing on his chest
as the blow came down he fell forward
the demon unable to stop its deadly course
wings weighing it down
stumbled towards the edge
Martin sprang to his feet
his sword full thrusting through the foul back.
Purpose complete
Toroc vanished
from men’s eyes.
Purpose crumbled
The demon vanished
into deadly smoke.
Martin turned to the enemy forces
and accepted the surrender.
Martin walked back to his tent
where he fell and remained.
And so ended the final battle.
So ended the man named
Martin Swiftsword.
THE
MINSTREL-MAGE
OF SANTHALA
BY
BARD
JUDITH
In windy hills when the moon is full, and the jeweled
stars are bright,
They tell the tale of the Minstrel-Mage, who fiddles out the night.
If you’ve not heard, why, sit you down, and a log on the fire throw,
‘Tis a song to be sung when the beasts are in, and out you need not go.
Are the sawis safe, and the cow-folk penned? Then listen well to me,
For a doleful tale of magic made, false love, and mystery.
(pause for a riff of music)
There was a goatherd in the west, and a lean long lad was he,
With an eye for the spells and an ear for the songs, as anyone might see.
Yet no free hand for the girls he had, though they clustered at his heel,
Only the one slim silver lass, with a laugh like a spring bell’s peal.
And he sang new songs on a fiddle old, and his voice and hers would chime,
With enchantment woven through the notes, and love in every line.
But a line of a tune, and a wave of a rune, and the sparks would round him fly,
And mischief followed on his heels, till the goats began to die.
(pause for another riff of music)
“This Power’s strong in the lad,” said they, “ it’s in his blood and soul.
So let him serve some mighty mage until he learns control!”
To Ximax did they pay good gold, and there he spent his days,
A-studying with the wizards great and learning Xeuá’s ways.
But ne’er a note could cross his lips, and the fiddle gathered dust,
As he scrived his spells and he learned his tomes, as every student must.
And quickly did he learn the arts of raising up the Power,
Until the time of Summoning, to face the mighty Tower,
At the gate he stopped, with a face like stone, and down his staff he laid,
“A mage I never here shall be, until my songs I’ve played.”
From the Tower he strode, with his cloak unfurled, and the Power crackling grim,
And a flash of light was the very last that Ximax saw of him.
(pause, for a dramatic riff of music)
To Santhala our tale must go; forget the goatherd boy -
Where in seven years to nobles’ ears came the whispers soft and coy,
Of a long lean bard with an icy brow, and fingers deft to play,
On a violin fair strung with silver hair, of notes that rang most fey.
And every woman in the town would sigh for a word from the bard,
But the minstrel’s face, though he sang of love, was set and cold and hard.
Much gold from the nobles’ coffers came, his music to compel.
And the ladies swore that when he played, the violin would bespell,
With a wisp of smoke, and a spray of sparks, it sang under his chin,
Of power denied and love decried, of fate and grace, and sin.
(yet another dramatic pause, and musical accompaniment)
Upon the stage the Minstrel-Mage would gravely make his stand,
A crimson sash round his narrow hips, and lace draped o’er each hand,
His hair backswept in an ebon queue, and his fingers lean and white,
He’d raise his magic violin, and play through the dark of the night.
And every night, the Power came, with light and dancing flame
To tune upon the instrument, and thrill through his long lean frame.
Every night save at full moon – for then he’d leave the hall,
To wander with his violin outside the city wall.
On hill and dale round Santhala his figure grim would stride,
And his bow drawn taut on the silver strings, till the music fairly cried,
With silver lace under whitened face, and his black hair flowing free,
Like the granthers’ tales of the Dark-kin elves, or some ancient Mhorashty.
(eerie ripple of music, and a pause)
T’was on such a night, when the moon was full, and the wind blew off the hills,
When the City Watch saw him coming back, and the gusts brought music rills,
With a wild ring, each sparkling string brought Power answering back,
And the magic flames danced around his head and marked his footprints’ track.
And the guardsmen swore no ale they’d had, but this they would avow,
And I heard from them the tale they oathed, and I’ll tell it to you now.
In the flames a face of lovely grace, and a woman’s voice that wailed,
“You were gone so long, and the nights were cold….” And then the magic failed.
The fire was real, and the fiddle burned, and the crimson sash alight,
The Minstrel-Mage a columned flame that lit the icy night.
(music ripples and dies away…)
In Ximax’s halls is a tower room, and a staff is locked away,
And in Santhala is a silver string, that never more shall play,
But still they say of a windy night, when the moon comes from her rest,
That the jeweled stars see the Minstrel-Mage, with his fiddle at his breast.
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Poems written by various team members |
