On this page all those poems have been accumulated, which didn't fit into any other category of poems and songs. You might poems about dreams, mortality, beasts and plants, famous or notorious persons, about thoughts, love and melancholy here. Pick your favourite topic!


Here we have something for the local newspaper I guess, which would go in the lonely hearts section. Yet it's a little different compared to the regular advertisement. For one it rhymes. Second, it has a bit more imagination - and honesty probably too - than the traditional stuff. Plus it's a bit weird, but quite original. So: Will our writer find her counterpart?

Uhm… er… hello out there!

I guess you must know me.
Though to be honest, I'm not sure.
While I'm not that hard to see,
above all I seem to lack, well, allure?

'Inconspicuous' is what I am,
not that much fun to be around.
Or so I've heard. Bit of a clam,
that's to what it all boils down.

Now I don't deny that, it's true!
No point in pretending otherwise.
For thus is the common held view:
There's no sleeping beauty here
in humble guise...

So, if you hoped for that, I'm sorry.
Then again, you might have missed
a thing or two I wished you knew:
You see, I'm actually quite special –
though for others it's hard to tell,
they simply label me a recluse,
they gather I'm nothing but a shell.

But did you know that
I'm a traveler of worlds?
That I set out, sails unfurled,
towards adventure, to beat the odds,
seek love and treasure,
even challenge the Gods?
That I'm so much more
than meets the eye?
I can be guy or gal,
both suit me well.
I may be sassy, savvy, sly.
Or handsome, humorous,
hearty and humble.
Or spineless, skittish, shy,
and the very next moment
all but rough-and-tumble.
Sometimes I feel like a piece of lore,
an arcane chart one might explore...

I guess you could say that
I'm a creature of many faces:
While I might be here, at your side,
I also travel distant places:
Through festive boulevards I stride,
over gruesome battlefields I ride,
I even solve some murder cases!
I once happened to be a bride,
aye, and occasionally I've… died!
I'm wrapped in the most exquisite gowns,
travel with the circus through the towns,
wear a beggar's tattered cloak at night,
and next day I'm a luminous knight.
At times I have a chat with a fairy,
or I soar in a ship high into the air,
sneak through alleys, dark and scary,
and stumble upon a dragon's lair.
There's a magician in me,
and an ancient, all-knowing sage,
I've lived the life of a flea,
and can't wait what's
the next thing I'm gonna be:
A king, an alchemist, a vengeful witch?
A princess? A hermit punished with an itch?
A dwarf, an elf, an outcast reviled?
I embrace them all gladly,
gleeful like a child.

Sounds familiar?
Then you aren't one such a fellow
who instead of talking enjoys to bellow,
whose arms and legs are so incredibly strong,
that they drag the rest of the person with them along?
Rather you're – dare I hope? – of another kind?
One who doesn't strike me right away as bold,
one who's got a heart, because he's got mind?
One who can't be made from a common mould?

As you might have learned by now:
I've got a thing for words.
Could it be, you're a related soul?
Well, you've read that far,
so how about we take a stroll?
Then we'd listen to the singing of the birds,
watch the silent passing of the clouds,
somewhere out there, undisturbed,
away from the milling crowds.

You know, silent waters run deep,
and it takes courage to take a leap!
Courage one needs to just plunge in,
find out whether one can swim...
Who says you don't have gills and fins!
Given I'm quite curious a creature,
very peculiar in form and feature,
chances are we could be twins!

For, I think you might have guessed:
I'm all about imagination,
with that I'm truly blessed.
Half human I am, half sort of a beast,
from wafer-thin paper I do feast.
I change shape as others do clothes,
my means, my magic, are verse and prose.
However, something has to be done about
saving our species, for it's dying out!
That's why I look forward to hearing from you,
in sincere hope that you're a bookworm too...

The Bookworm

View picture in full size A bookworm in search of a mate.
Illustration by Morjer.


In wake of the hellish Dragonstorm, in which a massive flight of dragons wrought destruction on the northern part of Sarvonia, the peoples who bore witness to the carnage were swept up in mourning for their loss. Amongst those who wrote of the disaster was a one Varthin Aldris, then a young man, who was so stirred by what he saw it sparked a lifetime interest in poetry and the written word. This is the first piece he is known to have written.

From heights above comes fury, ire, revenge.
Sanctuary eludes the stricken.
Wherever one looks
For silence
Or safety
Only fires are found.

Doom has risen, die is cast
Fate does wing aloft.
Man's decision, now long past
Beckons to the flame.

The Dragonstorm

View picture in full size An dragon attack on an Erpheronian fortress.
Illustration by Max.

Winged death embraces
Rampant hate ignites
Scourging ire erases
Pleading cries invite
The darkness unending
A year of respite
Time spent on mending
In wake of the flight.

Darkness rose.
And victim and victor kneeled together
Before the greatness
Of the night.

Varthin Aldris
1650 b.S.
The Year of Darkness


The following is a song about the Nerthers that is performed at inns and taverns across the length and breadth of Santharia. The name of the city is changed based on the area of Santharia in which it is sung. This version of the song originated in the city Marcogg and patrons take part in the chorus, well the least inebriated ones do in any case. For the benefit of those unacustomed with dwarf culture, the Nerthers are a society of dwarves involved in the collection, processing and sorting of waste products, both in their own native dwarven settlements and the human cities of Santharia.

The Nerthers at work

View picture in full size The Nerthers Guild at work. Image drawn by
Seth Ghibta and Bard Judith.

Verse 1
A balding Nerther was standing one night
In the sewers of the city, Marcogg
Gazed through his mask, as dark took over from light
And he picked up a strong smelling log
Nearby a Nerther lass was working as well
Her beard tucked safely away
The nerther sang his tune, in a deep baritone,
And sang her this sweet serenade

ooooooh Muck, muck, rake all this muck
Do it even though others shout “YUCK”
So join with me, join me, at night in this city,
And together we’ll rake ... all this muck

Verse 2
The fair nerther maid he aimed to entice
From the trade of the piss takers
Her answer was given, she didn’t think twice
She joined at once the muck rakers
Her days of piss taking were left far behind
And he showed her how to rake muck
His hefty dwarf miss, stopped taking the piss
As she raked and sang with her buck

Repeat Chorus

Verse 3
Now more Nerthers began to convene
In the sewers of that city Marcogg,
Collecting things that others find obscene
That gathered beneath the streets of Marcogg,
The Nerthers raked the muck and took it away
Then as the sun rose again
The army enormous of mask wearing Earthers
left, singing their haunting refrain

Repeat Chorus two times


”The Dance on the High Bridge” is a song popular among the street urchins and poorer folk of the Manthrian capital Marcogg. It refers to the famous High Bridge, the uppermost of the many bridges that cross the Mashdai River as it cascades down the rocky slopes on which Marcogg is built. As it connects the Great Temple of Nehtor with the Thane’s Palace, the bridge is used daily by a wide variety of people from all trades and classes.

The song probably started its life as a lighthearted ditty, to be sung while crossing the bridge. Wanderers of a fearful disposition could avail themselves of the song to help them forget, while setting foot on the narrow stone construction, how far they would fall if the bridge crashed, how wild were the waters beneath, and how sharp the rocks.

The last four verses, however, likely represent late additions to the song. They are thought to refer to Skeijorn Herrhal Marmarsek, also known as Skeijorn Purse-pincher, an unpopular mayor of the 13th century, who was infamous for the harsh punishments he dealt subjects who were unable to pay their taxes.

The Manthrian Capital Marcogg

Will you cross Mashdai,
And keep your feet dry?
If your heart seeks romance
take the High Bridge and dance.
Falalala Falala La.

Comes a boy up the road,
his back bent from his load.
To the High Bridge he strides,
leaps and hops to the other side.
Falalala Falala La.

And a young girl walks by,
hears the rushing Mashdai.
Lifts her arms, shakes her hips,
dances, bounces and skips.
Falalala Falala La.

And two sinkels drive up
with their carts full of stuff.
But their horses don’t fret,
Bow and dance a duet.
Falalala Falala La.

And the barncat, the sneak,
Comes the fuzzle to seek.
But she ain’t got a chance,
on the bridge she must dance.
Falalala Falala La.

And the mayor, hear, hear,
leaves his seat and prances near.
Even he can’t resist,
gets his legs in a twist.
Falalala Falala La.

O people, praise your lord –
and throw him overboard!
Let him dream his wet dream
as he drifts down the stream.
Falalala Falala La.

Marcogg folk, young and old,
gather round, brave and bold.
And they dance and they wave
to their mayor, the knave.
Falalala Falala La.

Will you cross Mashdai
And keep your feet dry?
Though your lords look askance:
Take the High Bridge and dance!
Falalala Falala La.


This may be a poem; it may be a receipt; or it may be an incantation. Most likely, it is all of these things. The verses were written on a parchment that had been left stuck between the pages of a book in the library of Lorehold. An unsuspecting researcher happened to open the book at the right page, and out sailed the parchment, like a letter from a faerie, or from someone long since dead.

We warn the reader that the compendium’s editors have changed some of the ingredients mentioned in the verses, therewith preventing the wicked and the misguided from concocting “Etherus’ Delight”.

A kuatu’s spit is what you need,
And three big spoons of nightshade seed.
Add vilerat blood, and brew the mead
To make your loved one want you.

The boardrak’s tusk will melt his eyes,
The lýth’béls make his juices rise;
Stir in six hearts of dragonflies,
To make your loved one want you.

Boil it for three days and nights!
From the top the slime you scoop!
Watch how blood with moonlight fights
In your lush and wanton soup!

Don’t let it cool – but make him swallow.
First lure his tongue – his soul will follow.
Take heart and gut and hair and skin,
It won’t be long ‘til you can sing:

He’ll quiver, he’ll shiver,
This brew will deliver
His obstinate heart into my gentle fist!
He’ll drool like a fool,
When he’s been through my school:
He’ll kneel and he’ll squeal and he’ll beg for my kiss!

Kaa-baa-yaa-ssaa-rrakk. Rshee!


This at first fairly innocent-sounding lullaby concerns the Manthrian superstition of the “Evil Ear” – that certain people can steal pieces of others’ souls by listening to them, and return said “soul crumbs” tainted, so that they inflict any number of ill-effects on the victim. When read with the knowledge of the persecution those suspected of having the evil ear faced, including being intentionally deafened and disfigured, the lullaby takes on a distinctly sinister air, which perhaps explains why it is seldom heard outside of Manthria, where the superstition is endemic.

Hush now, my little one
They’ll hear from you no more.
That lady walking all alone
Came this way once before.
And they’ll hear from you no more.

Hush now, my pretty bird
Stay yourself from singing.
For if you speak a single word
Your soul to her is winging.
And they’ll hear from you no more.

Hush now my brightest day
Your words are secret things.
They say she’s stolen souls away
From beggar-men and kings.
And they’ll hear from you no more.

Hush now so sweet and young
With silence like a crown.
She hides them under her twisted tongue
And gives them back upside-down.
And they’ll hear from you no more.

Hush now my flawless fey
And never be affright
For see: she hurries on her way
And clutches her head so tight.
And they’ll hear from you no more.

Hush now my taenish-hen
For they’ll hear from you now more
For she recalls what met her when
She came this way before.
And they’ll hear from you no more, my pet
And they’ll hear from you no more.


Call of the Wind is a dreary poem, written by a Gnomish Ximaxian Wind mage named Doran Elmerron Tetzleray, who had gone insane over the lustrous power of the wind. Over the years, he became senile and mad with power. He believed himself to be the most powerful Wind mage of his time. He would've become Archmage of the School of Wind Magic, but he was discovered to have been practicing Necromancy. This tells of the sad song of his heart, his reason for the mistakes he has made. Whether there is any truth to this will be for you to decide...

The fleeting breeze
Whispers softly in your ear
Its power
Raptures your being

You watch as it dictates
The direction of the trees and rain
How the nebulous clouds
Obey its subtle song

The rain appears
To retain some control
In its downward motion
And its pelting force

It is only but illusion
For its miniscule freedom
Is only granted by the Dragging Forces
And their undeniable pull

The way the other elements
Submit to the wind
Is comparable to how
I submit to my inner beast

It gives me the pretense of freedom
When I am its twisted string-poppet
I am forever trapped
For I could not resist
Grothar's hypnotizing melody
The call of the wind


This song by Judith of Bardavos puts us into the shoes of a fierce warrior who isn't afraid of heroically approaching a deadly foe - the Aglan Slug!

The Aglan Slug

View picture in full size Image description. The mighty Agalan Slug... Picture drawn by Seeker.

(with energy, firm chords)

The Aglan Slug, on an autumn day, encountered me and spewed,
And its foul glare enhanced the snare that I so foolish rued,
I saw the danger, yet I strode, on the aceedic way,
And I said, 'Belief is a falling leaf, and the slug will die today!'

On the forest lane it caused me pain; I fell against a tree,
Next a deep ravine where could be seen the scars of slug-trails free,
The beast it roared, and venom poured - I felt most free and fey,
Oh, I dared too much, and by reckless such, are heroes thrown away.

I bared my blade that brightened shade, and often has been known
To cut and slice dark wargs unnice, slash armour, wood, and stone,
With fell intent I did not stint: I gave my wroth full sway,
With its name a sigh like a battle cry, I stepped into its way.

(musical interlude, mournful)

It's far from home, my ghost doth roam - you'll see me walking now.
If I had run, the slug to shun, my reason would allow,
But I had fought not as I ought, this creature made of bile...
So to reeking ooze my life did lose, and haunt this fen the while.

(very slowly, acapella)

Aye, the Aglan Slug, on an autumn's day, encountered me and spewed,
And here I lie, bones 'neath the sky, to sing of what ensued.....


Handwritten by the poet: Sordoc 'The Great' presents an extract of Sordoc's poem "Ode to the Oxen" as a teaser prior to Sordoc's upcoming reading of this seminal work. Sordoc would like to point out that Sordoc spent a year following these most majestic of all animals as they walked back and forth across the Peninsula of Iol. As such, Sordoc is a much greater authority on the Paxen than the likes of Deklitch Hardin. Sordoc would also like to remind you that copies of 'Romancing the Beast' are available for purchase, and that Sordoc is starting a new round of public lectures on Sordoc's travels.

The Packox

View picture in full size Image description. The object of affection... Picture by Jonael Tomeskrift.

 I do adore the packox
In a non-romantic way
I do adore the packox
And with him I would play
I do adore the packox
Whether his fur is brown, black or grey
I do adore the packox
'Cause they are here to stay

I do adore the packox
The patter of their feet
I do adore the packox
The smell when next they breed
I do adore the packox
The way each other they meet
I do adore the packox
Upon their meat I'd feast and eat

I do adore the packox
Majestic and Noble and fat
I do adore the packox
Their fur would make a great mat
I do adore the packox
They knock most predators flat
I do adore the packox
They're a better friend than dog or cat

I do adore the packox
The horns upon their head
I do adore the packox
They leave none in their herd behind, dead
I do adore the packox
Watching as young paxen are bred
I do adore the packox
I know their males and females get wed



In the year 9th century a.S. Ravenport again survived a siege. The current leader of Ravenport who would be murdered within a month by the losing party of the siege, wrote down the following lines in his journal, ment for his son.

Oh Ravenport, thy beauty is not easy to write down
For thou art not a maiden fair in graceful, gorgeous gown
Nor is thy beauty like the fields, which roll in golden waves
Towards the east. - There died your sons, so many of your braves. -
No, nature's purest forms are not what gives you your appeal
Your character’s not delicate, nor radiant nor genteel.
It’s fickle, strong and proud no less, like storms fresh from the sea
And though the wind may grow dead calm, it will come back for thee.
Or else, think of the knight who has survived the battlefield
And stands, still hands upon his hilt. The ground he did not yield
Beneath him soaked in bitter blood of both his friend and foe
Yet he’s not broken, bent perhaps, his eyes with fire aglow.
And like the knight the Nest still stands, its banners in the air
Alive and proud, my Ravenport, fair city for my heir.


Amongst the oldest literary relics of the Ancient Tiquaitan men, this poem was written on the death bed of the revered Foreseer Anadaliaus, a highly accomplished man who devoted his life to curing the political climate of his time, something he succeeded in. Anadaliaus managed to unite the Feudal Cities of Tsu, Jirai and Chima into one, cooperative state- known as the 'Union of the Tiqua' or 'Tiquaitan'. The poem expresses Anadaliaus' optimism in the face of his own death in the strength of the union he orchestrated, a trust which seemed to be misplaced after his death with the 'Red Sunset' - the single bloodiest conflict in Tiquaitan history so shocking that it warranted almost complete obedience for thousands of years.

Descending into Gold

View picture in full size Image description. Descending into gold... Picture drawn by Ingeborg.

My life draws to an inert close,
The sun to set from where it rose,
My peak is done, my noon is finished,
The light I cradled is diminished,

The cold will quench the mighty flame,
My star-told destiny itself the same,
My flower withered, I am all but old,
My youth is spent, my body cold,

And even as I see my fate,
I can't accept the obstinate,
Though time has crushed my body's frame,
My drive and fervour stay the same,

Yet all my works can be unmade,
My footprints in the sand will fade,
It will not matter what I say,
If my Tiquaitan is sure to stay,

The resilence of Tsu beats in my chest,
And Jirai's blades are laid to rest,
Never again will Chima kill in vain,
Thus unified, we will remain,

And though my ailment will not change,
My body is the one in chains,
For as our golden sun retreats,
'Tis not my mind that it defeats,

The Tiqua has ascended from the strife of old,
And as I die, I descend into gold,

I descend into gold.


This piece (found crumpled behind a stack of dusty books on vicious beasties) pretty much covers the aspects of the researchers that spend their time helping to expand the Compendium. You have those that roam the world in an attempt to pry the secrets of plants and beasts. Those that look toward magics old and new and discuss theories that few can understand. More look toward the shaded past than anyone could count, attempting to bring the good and bad forward for all to see. Everywhere one looks there are those that are attempting to bring life to the living through words, art, or music. So we celebrate our history hinderers for each of us is one in one way or another.

Let's gather our war-wagers and battle-baiters
Our fame-fetchers and living legends
Let's seek our clever clerics and hair-brained holy men
Our prophecy-painters and senile seers
Let's recall our dragon-delvers and beast-botherers
Our plant-plaguers and myth-makers
Let's collect our barbaric-brains
And even our most sensible sage
Let's nudge our batty … I mean brilliant bards
Our manically, magnificent mages
Our careful chroniclers
Our respected races
Let's remember those who have come and gone
And those that have yet to find us
Let's greet youth-seekers and wisdom-reapers
Let's create an escape
A light at the end of the tunnel
Let's dream with the brightest
And dare a flight with fantasy
Let us hinder history


This poem was originally a piece of prose written many centuries ago by an eccentric whale watcher trying to describe the reason for his passion for whales. It was then rediscovered by a poet who was inspired while he was looking through old books, parchment and scrolls which he had found deep in the cellar of the Library of Ciosa. The nearly dissolved parchment instantly got his attention, and he eventually wrote a poem about the Carteloreen based on the writing of this whale watcher.

Sometimes called Carteloreen,
Noble as a King or Queen;
Wreathed in waves and breathing air,
Such magnificence is rare!

Heads so soft, triangular,
Body stripes irregular;
Two front flukes and shoulders humped,
Tap‘ring tails to help them jump.

Let Thytellor sweep through seas
With its eerie melodies,
Graceful beaching, dancing pods
Make the watchers all applaud.

Four main types of sentient beasts,
North to South and West to East,
They have Dopholk friends, it’s true,
Allies of the Merfolk too!

Legends tell of Silffin’s name,
Men from ice with eyes of flame;
White Sword-Whale of Baveras,
Riders of the northern pass.

Mystery surrounds these whales
Many don’t know what it veils;
Now let’s all return to land,
Leave behind the shells and sand.


We wandered down the moonlit road:
“See here,” I said, “the house where I
Was born and raised.” Inside, I showed
Her all the rooms with heavy sigh.
“Outside, we kept twelve teanish and
A goat who I named Mari Fair.”
We walked into the wood to stand
Beneath an oak with branches bare.
“’Twas here than Delvin gave me my
First kiss when I was ten, and when
I turned sixteen, we married. I
Was so in love.” We crossed the glen
And found a house all tucked away
Behind a quiet wood. “I bore him three
Sweet children: Tria, Liz, and Traye,
But all of them are grown, you see -
My Tria is a potter’s wife
And Liz fell for a man of trade.
My Traye took up a soldier’s life
Until he married this sweet maid.”
I took her to each child’s rooms,
Recalling each one’s younger face -
But could not smile for all the gloom
That seems to linger in this place.
“Last year my Delvin passed away.”
We walked the golden hillside slope
As night was melting into day.
“I never quite found ways to cope.”
We stood atop the hill a while.
“I think I finally understand -
I’m ready now.” And with a smile
Kind Queprur gently took my hand.


The poem below was written at the time of the Dragonstorm of 1650 b.S. by a young poet who is thought to have died during the disaster, he was unknown by name. It was found among the ruins of Voldar a short while after the Dragonstorm had subsided, the parchment was torn and the writing faded, not every word could be properly recovered and a couple of verses were lost but what could be saved was kept safely in respect of the many lives that were lost.

A fountain of fire from the skies,
A river of blood on the mountain side,
Crowds of people to a pile of dust,
The Dragonstorm does burn.

The eyes red as there victims' blood,
The teeth stained a rotting yellow,
Armoured flesh is dead and dark,
The Dragonstorm does burn.

Feel the wrath of their blazing heart,
Feel the fire of their burning lungs,
Feel the teeth as poniards they seem,
The Dragonstorm does burn.

Beware the light smouldering on life,
Ashes of so many - forever lost,
The heartache of those who are not,
The Dragonstorm does burn.

Vicious the beasts that crowd the clouds,
An inferno that seems may never die,
As life combusts into death - as do I,
When the Dragonstorm does burn.


(This poem describes the atrocities of the Chyrakisth Orcs,
the walking nightmare of Nybelmar...)

Heed the warnings and beware,
Zsharkanion serves death and destruction
Raining down from the peaks.
Unyielding, burning hatred...

They are creations of gruesome beauty
Rivaled with ungodly strength.
Born of the blackest incarnations
Yet possessing an elven grace.

In the realms of Zsharkanion
There is no real beauty,
Only beings that know no passion,
Have no emotion, and fight with un-ending aggression.

In the realms of Zsharkanion
Breeds the end of humanity.
In the realms of Zsharkanion
Breed the Chyrakisth.


Sweet love, the darkness comes in gentle grace.
With cold, her moonlight shows thy misty breath.
In beams, disperses shadows from thy face
As silent as the steps of calming death.
Lo! Winter rises whilst the spring decays!
All crops are harvested and food is gone.
Thy bony form grows paler with the days.
I’d kill to spare thine eyes, they skin, the dawn.
My darling, known I love thee truer than each star,
Each hour, each passing moment; more than life!
I’ll love thee whether thou art near or far.
Do not be frightened of this blessed knife.
To mortal things just whisper last goodbyes.
A final kiss, my love, then close thine eyes.


I see the twilight settle in your eyes,
Your western gaze reflecting sunset ash
That smears the fall. Injera brilliance lies
Across your shoulders, neck, and face (the flash
Of gold to light your sorrow) where I want
To be. O, Ghost of Broken Dreams, O you
Who languish in the stains that scar you, haunt
Your heart, remind you of the past. And through
Each moment crowds a memory, thick and black
Where I can’t follow. Veiled in darkness, all
Your future cursed to always looking back
And in the holes of you, I find I fall
In grief, yet deeper still, in love. And I
Will love you, Sorrow, till the day I die.


A poem of Korweynite origin, which has reached us from Nybelmar,
dealing with mastering the difficulties of life.

At the Mountain's foot, whose top I couldn’t see,
My father took my hand, and said to me,
“Son, the climb is hard, but don't feel weak;
some day, some day, you'll reach the Peak.”

He led me up the slopes toward the crown,
And never once did he let me down;
But in my youth, at times I strayed,
And for these times I dearly paid.

“No mother have you,” sometimes he said,
“We are on our own as we climb ahead.
We must keep together and do what is right,
for that is the way to reach Inthadin's light.”

“Climbing up Life’s Mount can be hard and slow;
Or very swift and easy as you go,
But you can’t go back, nor rerun the race
So all things you must do by Inthadin’s good grace.”

As I climbed higher, others did I find:
Some were cruel, and others were kind;
Many of us kept climbing up to the top:
Still others would not – they wanted to stop.

The years went by and I grew older;
My father slowed and told me to be bolder;
He said one day “Climb on without me.
“You’ll be fine alone now – go on and see.”

As I went higher, new friends I made,
Adventure we had, the memories don’t fade
I’d did it all over, without second thought,
And with those friends I’d cast my lot.

And better were the years I spent with the girl
Who climbed up with me, who made my heart whirl;
Whom I loved more than life, whom I wedded while young;
And, if I betrayed her, whose heart I stung.

We had four children and taught them well,
And lessons of life to these children I’d tell.
They grew up strong, both in spirit and life,
Despite some heartache and strife.

My children got older, on alone they went;
Together my wife and I, the time we well spent,
Until the morning when to the Peak she did go,
And left me to toil up alone, bitter and slow.

My father passed on; to the Peak he went;
His time was over and his years were spent.
When he went on I shed bitter tears,
And have remembered him fondly all my years.

Some friends of mine came who remembered the days,
When we were a’wandering on perilous ways.
So off into the wild, we journeyed together
Which took us through forest and fragrant heather.

When we were done, I was weary and alone,
And the years have gone by and old I have grown;
And the Mountain is cold, it is covered in snow.
I am nearing the Top: this much I know.

So when you read this young one, do not feel faint,
For Life is but a journey that Death cannot taint.
But Death can leave you for a short while weak,
For some day at last you will, like me, reach the Peak…


The Bone Queen is the Ruler of the Shadow Elves, those who remained in the ruins of the once fabulous and legendary Northern Sarvonian elven city of Fá'áv'cál'âr, now a haunted and cursed place known as the Water Marshes. Avásh'aelía was chosen Queen as a sign of rejection and independence from the other elven tribes and the High Avá'ránn. Buried in her souls are also ancient feelings of... love... (More details here...)

The Bone Queen

The night has fallen and I am alone
With memories of thee. My soul grows weak;
I dwell within my ruined world of stone.
I hear thy echoed words and dare not speak
So I might listen and remember thee
And in the music of thy voice, pretend
That I again am with thee, truly freed
From chains of madness, and thou dost defend
Against those shadows creeping round my heart.
My wilted love returns to brilliant bloom
And for an instant, bound are broken parts
Of me. But then the vision fades to gloom.
I feel my scars. Alone again at last,
I break like shattered mirrors of the past.


Aváth'caó (1900 b.S.-1779 b.S., Styrásh Aváth'coá, "Beautiful Child") was the most promising Injerín elf of her generation. In an effort to heal the blighted lands around Tak'dinal she traveled into the depths of its ruins. When she was seen again she had become transformed into Gouran ("Devourer") and would become the bane of the North, causing a Year of Darkness, pain, and sorrow. As her incarnation as Gouran, Aváth'caó was known from 1650 till 1648 b.S., which in the elven recordings is not accounted to her regular life-time. (More details here...)

Come forth, my dusky child, to the night,
The churning shadows creeping through the land
Who swallow up the day and darkling light.
Thy timid voice sendest forth; command
Dark troops to siege and set to searing flame
Each house, each creature that could dare oppose.
Oh, make them bow and tremble at thy name,
Whilst wild and orcish hordes destroy foes.
Oh, Child! Arise from dank and sultry tomb
Where darkest books have taught the evil art
And, like a child in the demon’s womb,
Be born again, more wicked in thy heart.
Devour all life standing in thy way,
And dim the moon, and kill each star away.


Estoy Móh'herín (560 b.S.- 404 b.S.) was an Eophyrhim drow, whose skills in necromancy turned her from a beautiful elven lady to a tortured servant. Her skills were not remarkably known until close to her death, when she conjured a Parade of the Dead to flee from assassins within the town of Nyermersys. (More details here...)

Estoy Móh'herín

O Drowess of the misty wood, betrayed
By those thou tried to trust, alone thou art
With darkened nights, dim days. Will no one stay
To comfort thee? To heal thy tarnish heart?
Such power thou possesseth. Thou canst wield
The motionless to walk the land, to rise
From drops of blood and war-raped fields
And take revenge for all their brutal lies.
Yet still thou feelst a chasm yet remains;
A place inside still filled with naught but gloom.
Thy life’s a fabric where thy blackened stains
Remind thee - brief’s the pathway to thy tomb.
A desperate soul and tortured slave, a mage
With nothing left to save thee from thy rage.


Aiá'merán (589 b.S.-209 b.S.) was Ránn of the ill fated Aellenrhim, and later Avá'ránn of the elven people. She united the elven tribes more than any leader before her, but after years of trying to halt the advance of Coór'Mélor, also called the Serpent, she was raped by the Coór'Melór himself and later gave birth to twins boys, who would grow up to be Eyrin Fontramonn and Saban Blackcloak. She herself died in childbirth.. (More details here...)


Beloved elf, styrás of Bolder, gentle Ránn,
The blessed light illuminating all our souls
And minds, with eyes revealing secrets of the dawn
Of elves, with love that made each broken heart turn whole.
And beautiful, thy towns constructed in the trees,
Enormous library, the greatest knowledge shrine,
Of Myth and histories, of lore and prophecies -
Alas, the darkest prophecy would end up thine.
The cursed Serpent, nightmare and unholy beast
The hellish monster desecrating purest elven womb!
To leave his evil seed to feed, on thy to feast!
A horrid dining leading thee into thy tomb!
‘Twas fair Avá who gave thee lovely face, gentle grace;
It shall be She who will return thee to thy place.


Soft embers glow beneath the hearth.
He sits there listening to the night,
Remembering sweet the breathing earth
And when his heart was light

As every star embraced by sky;
And in his childhood’s gentle keep,
He’d listened. Cricket’s lullaby
Would softly lull his mind to sleep.

Oh what has happened to those days
When he could make believe, pretend
In hilltops, where the Tirpan plays,
Then take his naps in willow bend.

His bones were weak. Those times were past.
Such troubles plagued his heart and mind.
But though his youth had failed to last-
A thought to leave it all behind.

He rose up then and journeyed far,
Ascended to the nearby hills
Up closer to the gilded stars
To feed a need no time could fill;

And there he shed his clothes away
To stand there naked ‘neath the skies,
Then sat down where the Tirpan lay,
Who whispered “Welcome” with their eyes.

by Lucirina Telor Vevan

This particular poem was found crumbled up in the hand of a man that had frozen to death. The poem itself was written with coal on a piece of old parchment. The people that found the man were unable to identify him and he was buried where he lay, as the villagers were afraid to offend Isaya if they'd moved him.

By the shine of my bonfire
I see white tracks in snow.
In blizzard and snowstorm
my eyes have no view.
By the shine of my bonfire
I see Isaya smile to me.
In blizzard and snowstorm,
There is no track to follow,
there is no track to follow at all.

Surrounded by snow I wait for Her.
And there is no view by moonlight,
She searches for my warm life.

By the shine of my bonfire
I see white flakes of snow.
In blizzard and snowstorm,
there is no way to go.
In the light of my bonfire
I see Her scythe shining brightly.
In blizzard and snowstorm,
I’m sure She will find me,
sure She will take me away.

Surrounded by snow I wait for Her.
And there is no view in moonlight
as She searches for my warm life.
No, there is no view by moonlight,
She searches for my warm life.


by Rayne Avalotus

Wicker candles, globes of light
Silent bells ring through the night
Calling creatures small and grand
Out into the dreamer’s land.

Injerá’s time is set, is passed
And rising moon doth gentle cast
Her milky rays upon the earth
While embers glow on a sky-hearth.

The crickets’ hum amongst blades
Of grass begins to softly fade.
Baveras’s sleepy waves doth reach
Stretching across the sandy beach.

Farm hounds rest on straw and hay
While on boats set within the bay
Slumbering avenor cats do ride
Upon the lazy ocean tide.

Dragons snore in mountain caverns
And house mice sleep in bars and taverns.
Aelirels in birches close their eyes
While in tufts of grass hide dragonflies.

Obscured in shadows, the unicorn
Dozes until the rising morn.
Each silver fish and crimson rose
Wanders off to sweet repose.

Until sun rises the night to cease
Let all there be a bit of peace,
And let all creatures, small and grand
Ascend into the dreamer’s land.

by Dalá'Valannía

Mortality is the texture of seasons passing
imprinted outside skin and inside bones

Mortality is the invisible sound of decay
rippling through flesh, unseen yet there

Mortality is the wheezing of every breath
taken into lungs and hissed out the next

Mortality is the ripe perfume of apricots
lingering, sweet and soft, on pink buds

Mortality is the flashing sparks of happiness
like momentary lightning over a violet sky

Mortality is the gentleness of true words
in transient songs wafting into emptiness

Mortality is the furious cries of babes
newly birthed, unwillingly into brightness

Mortality is joy, sorrow, pettiness, exhaustion,
hurting, laughter, anger, hate, affection, envy

Mortality is to live merely and merely to die


by Rayne Avalotus

In the glory of the Santharian world
None can match the fiery whirl;
The scorching winds, orange glowing,
The scarlet flaming feathers flowing.

A golden beak shimmers bright
As the phoenix ascends in flight
Streams of fire against the sky
Crimson and amber begin to fly.

In a scarlet blaze, a yellow flash
Corruption and evil crumble to ash.
From the phoenix’s blinding light
Arises justice and all that’s right.

But none shall know the origin
Of this mysterious paladin
Forever it shall remain unknown
To where this fire bird hath flown.

Those who are pure of heart and kind,
Who prove themselves to be benign
Shall not be burnt by the great bird
And may hear secrets before unheard.

But those who walk a darker path
Shall find the fire feathers scathe
And burn thy mortal flesh and skin
As though to burn away the sin.

One may search for this amazing sight
Through heat of day and dark of night;
Stand in the midst of scandal and lies
Stand in wait for the phoenix to rise.

To live for a moment or eternity,
The phoenix: a winged mystery.

The Phoenix


by Lucirina Telor Vevan

I thought we would outlast
the shine of the stars.
That our sun would never fade away.
I dreamt that maybe one day
we would grow old together
and now you say you won't stay.

I felt your heart caressing my heart,
and then your love withered to dust.
You left me empty inside,
so very cold.
I thought we would never end.

And now you ask me why,
I do cry.
Don't ask me why,
I do cry.
When you know
I still love you
deep inside.

So our love has failed,
yet once more.
I begged for one last chance,
you turned you head and said
there was no use,
for you loved me no more.

And now my heart must realize
you are finally gone,
and I am all left alone.
I thought we would last a century
and now you have faded away.

by Xarl

Here I sit.
A plush chair.
An elegant desk.
A phoenix quill
(though I doubt it)
lies in my hand.

I'm a warrior.
A wanderer.
The wizard from afar.
But here I sit.
And fail
To understand.

I'm a teacher.
An orator.
And I can't help it.
I love this place.
And yet...
There is something.

To students, I'm a god.
To my peers, I'm a sage.
To history, I'll be a titan.
But still...
I feel a call.
The ancient way-song my blood sings.

My students would be distraught.
My peers would be confused.
My legacy would be confirmed.
I curse the eyes of history.
I forswear the things of this world.
I swear my defiance to the moon.

I'll pick up my old stick.
I'll drop my new staff.
I'll doff these fine robes.
I'll put on coarse cloth.
Yes, I know, my friends.
We'll be on our way soon.

by Rayne Avalotus

In the darkness of the night
A shadow's creeping out of sight.
It stalks in strong and silent might.

The onyx cat leaps through the air
And moonlight grazes its black hair;
Into prey's flesh its canines tear.

by Silfer Darkflare

A wind arose in Avá’s Dream
Flowing like a holy stream
Magic of these forces came
The dream never was the same

Fá'áv'cál'âr once stood so tall
Enemies it made
Couldn’t bear the hard fall
Turned soon to shade

In the War of the Chosen long forgotten
People used many powers rotten
All they died in the bloody fight
Left was only hate and might

The ancient towers of Ximax
Guard the sacred orb
Any magic climax
They can easily absorb

Many artifacts by magic were made
Good or evil, memories will fade
People were killed, cities destroyed
When magic entered the Void

A day will come when forces rise
Colliding in the dying light
When Avá, being holy wise
Awakening ends the final fight

by Silfer Darkflare

 I walk as time goes
On the road of life
I meet many foes
Yet why do i strife

Why do i strife
Trying to find
The wisdom of life
As i was a blind

Why cant people see
What i became
I just cannot flee
My life remains same

Then answer me, strangers
As you walk on
How can there be avengers
When innocent are none?

by Xarl

Night beckons
A flash of silver
Moon watches above

Waves crash
On a sandy shore
Leaving one there

She rises
One with darkness

Guards sleep
Two sounds later
Their sleep eternal

Door closed
Locked and barred
Shadow cares not.

Black wire
In and around
The door opens

He sleeps
Meddling one
Enemy of Them

She leaves
Her work done
Returns to darkness

Sickle wet
Not with seawater

His wife awakes
His head
Looking at her

On his skin
One strange word


by Xarl

The night is your guard
But your shadow my life
My love beyond immortal trial.
Your eyes, sweet as wine
More deadly than any
Poison in a dark crystal vial.

The light of your face
The dark of my soul
Bound as are sun and moon
The blood on my hands
The rose within yours
Resounding with timeless tune

My heart is bared
An empty cup
For you to leave or take
But should you spurn
My greatest gift
This vessel will soon break.

I await your answer.

by Xarl

Light and Shadow clash
Ahm and Soor; their lash
Tears open the fabric of the land

A sphere glitters and shines
Radiating magic lines
Beauty conceals danger's darkened hand

Ximan wanders forth
He wonders at his worth
But what is this strange shimmering band?

Energies stream out
Ximan's triumphant shout
Echoes in the mountains and the sand

Eleven Towers rise
Connecting earth and skies
All of them bearing the Founder's brand

Eleven Staffs are wielded
The Orb of Ximax shielded
The Magic City glows in twilight's hand

by Lucirina Telor Vevan

Everything dies
and nothing is left
of a life of effort,
where every new day is a sacrifice
and each night does not bring rest
only dreams that are not dreams
but hooves of wild horses
trampling the heart and mind.

We trudge a treadmill,
turn a spit,
fleeing from the storm,
trying in vain to escape
from what awaits us all.

We hide behind false promises
brief pictures
eat honey-dipped lies
consume half-baked truths...

Open your eyes!

Each day we die a little more
we awake less alive
each second is one less
from a bag already half-empty.

Queprur awaits us all
and she has time
to spare...

Poems written by various team members