Soul Verses

Member created stories, poems, & other creative work.
User avatar
Galadorn
Haste Bear
Posts: 2483
Joined: Sat Feb 07, 2004 9:10 am
Location: Hefei, China

Soul Verses

Post by Galadorn »

A tall and stoic man cloaked in form fitting midnight blue full plate and helm, tower shield still hanging heavy in his left-hand grip, and regal purplish indigo cloak flowing behind, strides loudly to the lectern of The Hanged Man, ignoring quiet jeers. He drops his free hand on the lectern with a thump, some might think to gain attention, but in reality, not at all for such a purpose. Patrons who are only slightly alerted might watch and wonder what is going on, as the man’s pause on display is very uncomfortably long until everything on his person is still… Some surely turn away with a slightly worried shrug or smirk, others look around questioningly …‘why..?’
After too long, he looks up, staring towards the doorway. Still as an oak in no wind. His words are whispers at first, then seem to gradually growl louder as the verses go on. His voice is not harsh or demanding of attention, instead carved with a definite air of command. Alas, he appears uncaring, even oblivious to the crowd should anyone else listen or not…


Image

"blade warmed a moment by another’s short life
cold as an undead heart before the slice
grip that holds firm as stone
mind like statue even if alone"


He pauses. His free hand drops from the lectern to his side. It is difficult for any who for unknown reasons still actually watch him, to decide what he’s…doing there? He, covered toe to tip in thick steel, his face completely covered. Some snicker quietly, perhaps thinking he may have changed his mind and plans to flee from this obviously unwarranted spotlight. Clearly untrained in performance, yet somehow, they feel compelled to give this strange warrior at least one eye’s due.
Pause.
Small ‘coughs’, an inaudible chatter echoes slightly from a back corner.
A ‘clink’ from near the bar.
His head rises again...


"death comes quick, a life unsung by bards
crumpling limbs fall like wind-blown cards"


A few more drunks join, slowly gleaning the deathly words from this strange man’s metal cowl, as they rise slowly in volume, slowly as if perhaps some…. truth? …is spilt? Unknown quite still. Words similar heard before, with aim to shock, but this time, there’s just an air of morbid shade that hovers over the audition.
Quiet the crowd gets. Louder his words come. Through the wretched tavern they reverberate, until soon only his words ring out. A pin drop heard miles away. All stare his way now, holding their breath as if submerged in a dark calm pond petrified to break the dim eerie calm.


"even before laying still, to rise ne’er more
blade with a flash, sheathed, free of gore
left to rot upon the bricks
another soul ready… to cross the styx"




… …

Standing still his eyes dead center they do not see his face. Some think he’s crying. No movement. Just stillness. Only he knows why those words came. Patrons and bartender make no sounds, like a still chilled calm before a perfect storm. Unsure what the words truly meant, but their imaginations wildly lit.
He hoists the heavy shield to his shoulder; his forearms burn from holding it still so long. Even he does not notice the hand’s white-knuckle grip under mailed glove… fingers beg for blood – the lines so forced – the room so matte – some words still echo in the back of their skulls:

“…death comes quick… death comes quick… …to rise ne’er more… …to rise ne’er more…”

He backs away. Pauses one more time. Slowly scans around the room memorizing the faces and nods his head to no one. Then loudly strides out to no applause.
Last edited by Galadorn on Thu May 09, 2019 3:10 am, edited 1 time in total.
User avatar
Galadorn
Haste Bear
Posts: 2483
Joined: Sat Feb 07, 2004 9:10 am
Location: Hefei, China

Re: Soul Verses

Post by Galadorn »

Image
User avatar
Galadorn
Haste Bear
Posts: 2483
Joined: Sat Feb 07, 2004 9:10 am
Location: Hefei, China

Re: Soul Verses

Post by Galadorn »

The Hanged Man’s door slams shut to the sounds of heavy boots. Quickly silent those who sit within are startled at the sound. Others who have seen this man upon the podium before might elbow those within reach to shut up. A few “hushes” are heard and well before he reaches the lecturn the room is as quiet as a crypt. In his right hand hisses and sputters the only sound in the room, a huge lit torch, twice as big as any, with many small etchings, symbols and runes along its shaft.
As usual the man is covered head to toe in blue steel, his identity a mystery. Huge shield in left hand, curved blade at his side, unhitched. This time there is little pause, and the words are served blazingly loud from start to finish as if birthed from some sore anger within.


Image

"its fingers take away the itch, forced on you by the winter witch
its embered blocks caress urchin leg, when passerbys ignore his beg
its blaze chars your meal to your liking, but look away and end up starving
its crackle you enjoy each morn without paid homage to the Lord, he does not ask, nor does address, but you all do thank Him nonetheless
"

"its heat so welcome to everyone, even those who feel alone
its blaze alight the darkest night, it scares away all evil’s bite
its flames burn gone what you wish not, into black ashes soon forgot
its sparkles climb this way and that they flutter back and forth, then disappear into the dark a last tribute… the Lord’s bright spark
"

"its dance is loved to watch to ease, the coming of the midnight freeze
its cleansing ache most welcome when, infection slips beneath your skin
its power known so welcome in, to selfishly take it from Him
its been with you forever since you came into the world, it feeds, it heals, it takes away what you choose to abhor, and even though His rightful due you’ll never ever pay…
The Lord of Flames will remember you upon His judgement day
"


Patrons twitch as if the words literally burn.

Some flush red in thought, realizing their obvious fault. Their fault, like a surprise bucket of scalding water to the face, to use the Firelord’s gift of flame so many years taken advantage… …a tiny shiver of regret seeps under their skins. Some even whisper an unheard thanks…

The steel clad man steps back, slowly scans the room, nods to no one and strides out into the dark night, a hazy scent of burning torch left within.


Image
Last edited by Galadorn on Thu May 09, 2019 3:10 am, edited 2 times in total.
User avatar
Galadorn
Haste Bear
Posts: 2483
Joined: Sat Feb 07, 2004 9:10 am
Location: Hefei, China

Re: Soul Verses

Post by Galadorn »

Image
User avatar
Galadorn
Haste Bear
Posts: 2483
Joined: Sat Feb 07, 2004 9:10 am
Location: Hefei, China

Re: Soul Verses

Post by Galadorn »

The thud of heavy boot upon creaking split lumber is less surprising to the regulars of The Hanged Man tavern this night. While that shock is less felt, the solemn mood and morbidity remains since last this mysterious poet broke the threshold. To the rare few who appreciate his words, if still nay understand their true meaning, he is dressed slightly different this time. The regality of his dark purplish cloak has been replaced by a shroud much more fitting. Spun with a rare filament none have seen before, so black it devours even shadow, absorbing if not clawing away the light that dares shine toward it, as it rolls over his frame in slow motion as if defying gravity itself. Its hood pulled slightly forward shifts and sways, teasing those who try to spy the face beneath it… almost lifelike it curls to block features at every glance…

Image

"there is no list -- to give recount -- the names of lords forsaken
when stilled darkness -- under thin lid -- your eye has fine’lly taken
your breath is gone -- it is no more -- you rest upon a pyre
your final crawl -- nay beating heart -- to feed the hungry fire"


He pauses quite still, lowering his head as if to read some unseen parchment that does not rest upon the lectern. “Has he forgotten his words?” – some risk to think – “No.” After sinister moments, his right hand breaks the silence; a quiet crunch as unnatural strength slowly crushes the old wood. His shoulders slump ever so slightly, as the tension is released. A small dusting of wood chips falls to the ground.

The rest is whispered as if spoken for no one. The words hiss out barely heard, but to those close enough, they leave a lasting shiver along their spines for many nights to come…


“time was stolen -- an unjust truth -- your destiny a failure
what was your name? -- we dared nay give -- your mother how it ailed her
I was not there -- gave no farewell -- your sacrifice was planned
her tears fell hard -- upon the stones -- her own life took by her own hand”

“was it supposed? -- to be this way? -- just demons comprehended
he heard their wails -- come from afar -- a pilfered life never be mended
misunderstood -- so long back then -- the heartwrenched pain he feels today
is it too late? -- to now feel ache? -- forever guilt he must repay”




… …

… … …

Not a breath, only the creaking of planks can be heard, as he slowly leaves the tavern.
Last edited by Galadorn on Thu May 09, 2019 3:10 am, edited 1 time in total.
User avatar
Galadorn
Haste Bear
Posts: 2483
Joined: Sat Feb 07, 2004 9:10 am
Location: Hefei, China

Re: Soul Verses

Post by Galadorn »

Image
User avatar
Galadorn
Haste Bear
Posts: 2483
Joined: Sat Feb 07, 2004 9:10 am
Location: Hefei, China

Re: Soul Verses

Post by Galadorn »

Krabbelor the Silversmith takes a break and shakes his bearded head slowly at the man’s back. He’s watched the man hammering his silver like a machine, never flinching. Long hours. Unsure how he lasts. His apprentice enjoys this hooded man’s visits, with so little room in the smithy, he’s often told to take off until he’s done. A welcome rest. Or a rare copper-night in the arms of some toothless alley-beauty if he’s the energy left.

Image

While he leans sweaty backed against the anvil, he takes a swig of some dark spirit then pauses to strain his old gummy ears, slightly leaning his head forward squinting at an absent light, to hear what might be.. a whispering? Is this man ..talking? It’s the hiss of the embers. That’s it. But…he’s not sure. The hammering echoing between his skull plates over and over he’s often thought he’s heard voices over a hot piece of steel.
He motionlessly shrugs. Half listening to the sounds in his air-boiled shop...


Image

“never changing, true to herself
until ripped from material birthplace
heavy, rough, troublesome
harder than stone, cold as ice His gift purifies her”


The whispers stop. The man leans back taking a moment to reverse bend-stretch his lower back exhaling very quietly. The dwarf watches intently, knowing that feeling. Pleasureful pain. The toll paid for a good hour’s ache. He squints again, he’s sure the man is talking… But alas, when what he thinks are whispers to come --…he dips the red hot beaten ingot into the bath….”hiSSSSSSSSSSSSSssssssssssssssssss….”

”drips until twisted into useful
molded, formed, ancient becomes new
long ignored underfoot
His breath alight births anew”


The dark man pulls the ingot from the bath clumsily, sputtering some to the floor. Krabbelor knows he’s distracted, but just can’t hold back:

OY lad. This’int yer fuckin’ shack. Dinna be messin’bout, ‘ey? Or ye’ll be out y’hear?”, he grumbles.

The man stops still, holding the ingot over the bath as it drips. Like a statue he waits, standing there, holding it steady, until not another drop could not even be shaken from it.

My apologies…my Lord. Only a few more… hours, I beg.

Meh! Fine. Juss…..,Krabbelor fumbles his words, unaccustomed to such formal-talk he flushes slightly unsure how to respond,

Juss! …Juss, ….ye watch it. Now git on wit it,he nods to no one, happy to end the uncomfortable and uninvited chatter.

Placing the semi-cooled ingot back on the anvil carefully, he sighs quietly. Slowly looking over the assortment of tools, hammers, clamps and pokers, he chooses a smaller but still heavy mallet and starts again. Hammering. Crushing raw silver. Caressing the blade between layered steel with strange sparkling essences. Crushed ruby dust. Resting it submerged in foul, sulphrous stinking oozes.


If only his father could see him now. Who cares. He surely does not. Hours pass. A curved blade forms. Krabbelor leans up and raises his brow ever just so slightly. After another few strikes, catching his rhythm his words this time are even less clear… Krabbelor gives up trying.

Image

His prayer continues...

“black into grey, grey into white
The Firelord grants success
bent and bold, hot to the touch
its new quest a dark destiny”


Completing the blade, the man scrutinizes it carefully and slowly frowns. It looks beautiful. Krabbelor wide eyed wonders what might be wrong with it. With a careless flick of his wrist it drops to the floor with the other waste chips clanging loudly. Rejected. A day’s work forgotten. But much well learned. The man quickly dons his armor and leaves only with a curt nod of thanks half-directed towards the dwarf for the use of this smithy...
User avatar
Galadorn
Haste Bear
Posts: 2483
Joined: Sat Feb 07, 2004 9:10 am
Location: Hefei, China

Re: Soul Verses

Post by Galadorn »

Image
User avatar
Galadorn
Haste Bear
Posts: 2483
Joined: Sat Feb 07, 2004 9:10 am
Location: Hefei, China

Re: Soul Verses

Post by Galadorn »

Tonite’s penance was welcome. An old wound reopened by some lucky strike needed cauterizing and nothing ever soothed him like the flames of the Tyrant Among Fire. As much as he loved Him, fire still hurt. He dared not flinch, especially kneeling before the Flamebrothers and Flamesisters present at temple tonite. Often, he wondered why His Greatness in Flame did not ease his pain, especially at prayer, and he eventually accepted it as his own spiritual awakening… some divine remembrance or goal for those truly devoted to Him: that in fact it IS the pain, the searing whiteness of agony that is what we should thank Him for. He always knew with the pain of ache and infection, only His more gracious pain, the fire, the cleanse, can the weaker faiths’ afflictions be abolished.
Image

He cursed himself for hating the pain. He will never do that again. Weak body. Weak mind.
He will discipline himself further after prayers he decided.


So as his sides begin to cook…and char… he raises his head, to gaze longingly into the beautiful waving tufts of glorious red, orange, white and majestic blue rising upward from the central brazier within His temple, with an unshaking and devoutly still smile. Crouched there, he begins to whisper…

“I call to You, I know You hear, Your searing sound, cause me no fear,
when darkness falls, surrounds your glow, you bring the pain, to help me grow.
With each small sip, of boiling hope, hissed upon me, it helps me cope,
when faced each morn, and day and night, with faithless fools, who shade your light.”


An hour passes. His legs numb. His flesh blisters, curls, bubbles dry until flaking … then… nothing. No pain. His mind clears. This is what he has waited for. A vision appears in those gorgeous flames. That which only the clergy boast of back home. The words that curdle from his lips now, he does not know from where or whence they come, he speaks so low only the Flamelord himself could hear:

“What is this gift? You face me now? I am not still, i’ve writ no vow,
am undeserved, am unprepared, to hear your voice, I am too scared.
Within my eye, within my soul, within my heart, if truth be told,
I AM all yours, speak to me Lord, or take this flesh, to fill your hoard.”


It is He.
The Firelord.
Standing still. Staring.
Among the flickering flame dance. Staring at HIM. Daring him to cry out. But he doesn’t. Strangely enough, he feels cool. No stings. No movement at all. An endless chilly ringing between his ears the only lasting sensation. Then…

Image

.
.
..
..

Image

...
...
....
....

Image

.....
.....
......
......

Image

.......
.......
........
........

Image

.........
.........
..........
..........

Image

...........
...........
............
............

Image

............
...........
..........
.........
........
.......
......
.....
....
...
..
.


Awakening the next day he can barely move. He is tied down on a flat wooden bed-like structure he soon realizes only Priests require post deep prayer. His sides, arms and legs are wrapped thickly with damp canvas treated with a foul stomach turning oil and herbs. After initial panic born from the restriction wanes, he tries to move and soon is quite thankful for the wraps. Every fraction of an inch he shifts brings a new shrill of agonization. A sincere burning as if immersed in blueflame. Staying still only slightly helps. But soon the pain falls into his subconscious as he starts to recall the dreams…


He came to visit ……me.


He swallows dryly, half dead, laying pained on the blackened wood.

A Lightless (Kossuthan Novice) stands near his ‘bed’ gawking. Holding a clay pitcher. Shaking just a little.

His head is also tied. Wet bandages. Strong knots. He strains his eyes downward, painfully, causing his head to shiver… to try and see who it is. It does not matter.



Water,” he quietly barks.


The Lightless reacts instantly. It is his job. But the aching man is no Priest, and does not expect what happens next. The ‘liquid’ in the pitcher is no water. That would be an insult. It is thick and nearly boiling hot. Gummy. Sticky. It grants no relief beyond simply the slightest moistening as it’s thickness rolls over his paper dry tongue to glue his throat together. It tastes like ash. - "What the fuck." - He feels like a scream, but that would certainly make it worse. He almost passes out.


Tempting painful reckoning from the Eternal Flame who runs this Temple, the Lightless looks around terrified, and just has to ask;



H—How did you…how did you… Do it m--my Lord? What d--did you see?


The man does not answer. It takes nearly all he has left to force the hot gruelish gum down his throat, nearly choking. If truth be told it half cooks his lips, tongue and throat. Unable to choose which physical pain he should devote his most attention to, instead he inhales deeply, thinking only of his breath. Thinking; - “Why? Why is this boy so terrified?” - “What did I…what have I done to shake him so?” – His mind's eye then flashes back to his prayers, that blue flame, his… dream. He shivers and his eyes readjust, squeezing them to flush them free of that fucking water in them, to squint quickly to the Lightless who, still risking torturous punishment for his insolence, stands waiting for an answer…


Nearly retching a choked response, just before the gum drink takes its effects, he stares into the boy’s eyes with bloodshot silent fury.



HE. Visits. Me.
Image
User avatar
Galadorn
Haste Bear
Posts: 2483
Joined: Sat Feb 07, 2004 9:10 am
Location: Hefei, China

Re: Soul Verses

Post by Galadorn »

Image
User avatar
Galadorn
Haste Bear
Posts: 2483
Joined: Sat Feb 07, 2004 9:10 am
Location: Hefei, China

Re: Soul Verses

Post by Galadorn »

Image

Slowly the wind-scratched door of the Hanged Man tavern creaks open. It is as usual characteristically quite barren at the Hanged tonite. If it mattered. Which it does not.

The tall armored man enters and clunks towards the bar only minutely giving whoever is at the bar any gaze at all. With a nod from the barkeeper his path deviates towards the empty podium. Each step this night seems pained as if each of his boots weigh a ton. Standing there stiff and still, dark hood covering his features, he shares his deepest moments in verse, to the small uninterested few who still wallow in their tankards of uninteresting memories.


Image

"Uninvited are his praises towards she who they intend
Unconfirmed are her responses of a heart still on the mend
Uninspired by his strength although simple to detect
Unappreciative of sacrifice instead turned to neglect"

"Unheard are prayers of adoration granted day and night
Unknown are troubles earned when in absence of the light
Unkind his thoughts of late while bringing none a peaceful rest
Unthought of consequences should the truth be fateful guessed"

"Unbeknownst he waits for knowledge in its purest purest form
Unfound each night it fails to dawn upon him until morn
Unhappily he wanders still tortured filled with grief
Undesired beyond words, his heart weeps in disbelief"


Dead silence. For what seems like weeks he stands in thought. The minimal few who listen dare even swallow their grogs unsure this man might unsheathe the wicked blade at his side and cleave the works into deep red puddles of fleshy chunks. The air is thick and could be cut by a knife.

The tall man finally stirs as if awoken from a silent nightmare. He turns as if distracted and thumps the bannister with his shield clanging it. The ring bounces around the room clearly drawing unwanted attention. A few patrons nearby hold their breath, silently cursing their choice to sit near the lectern tonight. He shifts his step to gracefully recover, descending the step to the main floor with a slight hop… to quickly maneuver his gait towards the door and into the darkness.


Image
User avatar
Galadorn
Haste Bear
Posts: 2483
Joined: Sat Feb 07, 2004 9:10 am
Location: Hefei, China

Re: Soul Verses

Post by Galadorn »

Image
User avatar
Galadorn
Haste Bear
Posts: 2483
Joined: Sat Feb 07, 2004 9:10 am
Location: Hefei, China

Re: Soul Verses

Post by Galadorn »

A creaking hinge on the Hanged Man’s door announces a new patron tonight to no one. The tavern is not empty. Just no one cares. He likes it that way. They don’t bother him, he does not need to…re-educate anyone. Fair trade.

It’s been a while, but after a few heavy footfalls, a few dregs do flash a gander, and even fewer actually nod a half sincere greeting his way. They get no expected response. Neither party cares. Fair trade.

Upon reaching the podium, the man this time produces a fine leather-bound book, gold leaf a little frayed along the papers’ edges. He holds it open with one hand, the other still labored by his thick and battered tower shield, the divine and arcane symbols upon it, once clear, appear intermixed now… too many beatings.

Standing a few quiet moments, quite still, he almost turns to leave… but stopping half turn, he turns back and sighs. After another painful moment, it appears he might simply be just reading silently from the tome, as very subtle movements appear of his head and shoulders. Once someone swears he might have raised his shield an inch or two, as if he wanted to gesture with his free hand, but gripping the huge shield blocks it.
He continues to what most believe “mouth” some secret speech, for several minutes.

Sometimes pausing to look around.

Sometimes staring off into the distance.

Patrons stare gum-eyed.

Just about when hope is totally lost, he closes the book with a loud flap, turns and slides from the podium to the main floor. Carefully he wraps the book in a suede square of cloth, tucks it carefully into his shoulder bag and moves towards the bar.

As he passes the nearly slumbering barkeep who’s busy polishing a pristine clean tankard for the twentieth time tonight, he quietly mutters only one phrase, nodding towards the doorway he will soon pass through to disappear once again into the winding cobblestone streets…


Hinge needs work.”

Image
User avatar
Galadorn
Haste Bear
Posts: 2483
Joined: Sat Feb 07, 2004 9:10 am
Location: Hefei, China

Re: Soul Verses

Post by Galadorn »

((OOC: placeholder for redacted poem #7))
Last edited by Galadorn on Mon Jul 01, 2019 8:14 am, edited 1 time in total.
User avatar
Galadorn
Haste Bear
Posts: 2483
Joined: Sat Feb 07, 2004 9:10 am
Location: Hefei, China

Re: Soul Verses

Post by Galadorn »

A long trip a foot. The hills of the Dwarven Mining Company finally found. The man in blue plate trudged behind, giving the lead to his gruff companion. Bails of smoke billowing behind like a steam engine’s blackened wake. The road quiet except for whatever the dwarf's numerous orifices expectedly (or unexpectedly) orate.

Image

A full day's hike and mining. The yield was great. But with only two, the day waned into night. With word of recent sightings of lycan or worse upon the road, they decided it best to return to the ‘Deep next day. Lost in a sea of beards, ale, pickaxes and anvils’ ringing, the man bade his companion good night, never expecting to see him the next day of course, but thankful at least some bargains were struck. Trade in the City of Splendors for these two crafters would soon turn as bright red as the Firelord’s own fury.

Resting a while on his shortened cot in the Inn of the Sleepy Dragon, the man groans from soreness. Ample booze and shut-eye cannot bring him sleep, so instead he jots words to parchment in honor of the day.

Maybe someday he’ll sound this one out to the dregs of the Hanged Man. I guess that depends if he survives the walk back on the 'morrow, hauling his newly smelted ingots.
Post Reply