Sunday of Planting, CY 587; The Hall of Triumphal Evil

Gods, what wrack of pain cathedral’d this?

Azur’d billets cross’d nothing save cakes of ash,

Banners of Furyondy toss’d to cold abyss?

‘Twas certes an awful debauch, now smash’d

and scatter’d to laughing years, heinous crimes

sung in Iuz’ tongue among arch’d rafters.

This festive ruin of Her dark dream defames

festivity, whorls crimson the torches trailers

into the whispering darkness above.  Shadows

unbidden dance the lantern streams, tapped

to crimes previous.  Heinous the strikes and blows

that brought the Temple down, that left Her trapped.

Yet still, behold!  Myriad paths course the wreckage,

belie desolation, reveal the salvage!

Freeday, Growfeast; CY 587 Sundering Allrem’s Gate

Earth’s foul quiver did let the fearsome bolt

that, by Romag’s release flew to Fire’s gate.

But righteous song of rights proof did volt

the bands demise! Five masques of hydra’s hate

did gird the flames. By Lolth’s dreadful string

Sel wound the fate of two. Rufus shorn

a third by pole. Yet remainders slashing

snags cut Olo nigh in twain! Sword sworn

blue then sallied to the fray, and by Cuthberts

mote did pierce the breast of Echidna’s worm.

The girdle loosened, ’twas the buttface twins retort

to fire the guardians troll, and end the storm.

To complete, our band escaped the Canon’s plan,

tithing hydra’s bound heads to cheering guardsmen.

Freeday, Growfeast CY 587: Sing like your mother

Selaphora you sing like your mother

wide eyed, open mouth’d a lover

sucking, without words, a bottomless

horn of perverse plenty but you, you

would rather flirt the hunger of wyrms

wipe dragons blood like vermouth

from cheek or thigh, jeer ghasts while taking turns

to grope the harpies teat, scorceled by songs

of heroism? You? Heir to bitches’ whore?

She’d as soon pull an enchanted bung

to stop her vent as bind children’s sores.

But you, Selaphor, the light to her dark

square same to hit very different marks.

Earthday, Growfeast CY 587: Bloody Measures

Fingers press’d deep to the moments track;

creas’d in doubt, the well worn page held close

to the squinting eye, senses wrack’d.

Darkness at the strings demise hosts

your fear Olo; three yards, or two twitched

to signal here to howling gnolls’ den?

Halted, silent, the warriors breath now hitched

to th’ yarns breadth: two indeed, then

what?  Lead saws parchment, wall carvings

flick ensorceled light to startled eye,

the thief  cannot rub away the gnawing

doubt some turn or grade has gone awry

along the page.  Slow this track to fine treasure

by desperate, silent means and bloody measures.

Waterday, Growfeast CY 587: Into Spring

Delvers heed the call of season’s change!

Trace north the cursed arrows fletch

past Jewel, and the Kron to Welkwood Fringe.

Make due counter there of foul shrine eldritch

with bivouac bold! Friends, to your mark!

Shove aside the hearths meagre comforts

to sketch in sharp detail your life’s great work

across this frosted pane. Heroes deport

to bold lines and the strongest verse, thoughtful

in strategy, reserv’d and ready, yet quick

as the bloody drake to launch their fateful

sting! Prove yourselves the devils wrack!

To the gaming table, hie and fling

the dice to adventure; into spring!

The Growing Threat, Growfeasts’ Eve: CY 587

Gaze deep through weary winter snows

past lofty Lortmils singing frosted chords

to Gnarley Forest; see, a black spring grows!

‘Tis demon’s broth mere sigils cannot ward

nor old heroes turn by remember’d feats.

Southerly of the squalid Nulb ruins await

her baleful tones and cacaphonous beats,

and the fool to chime our heinous fate

through facets of four faced golden key.

Joined they from four strange boxes

these gems give awful choice; placate She

of Layers Nefarious, or turn She with same rocks?

Bode they the wisest course that fell at Emridy,

to hold hell on earth temporarily?

Trappers Rendezvous, Month of Coldeven: CY 387

Stands bare the gaming table, swept of crib’d page

and scattered dice. Our player’s gone

to hills and drowsy vale, snow lidded boscage

or light decked street far from darkest dungeon.

Lost they to study, and quiet inward focus

the best to temper memories vain and foul

through disciplines diverse and modus

known for toning the timbre of one’s soul.

Either righting battles with wooden swords

or outflanking cantors in oelven verse

the players gain insight, moving onward

from desperate end to sagely recourse.

These studies abroad bode well, for ‘neath this pane

of frosted glass a nightmare grows an awful refrain

Month of Fireseek, CY 587: Into the South

To better the one, dissolution of all -
ended not thus, thou? Each to her own path,
woven through fingered woods, o’er hill
and for the urban’d dales into the south,
following each their long road of Istus?
Silence and the oelven winter breaking
o’er tear’d farewells, and greetings ponderous
as Corellon’s first poem, days freezing
into the long pause of Celene. Goodbye
Ramses and Mal, Agnar to Sel farewell!
Dear Cyril good luck, May Gracchus hie
to his giants of lightning, the southern Lortmils.
shelter now in Telchurs gaze, the frosted glass,
your lonely song of learning too shall pass.

First Godsday of Fireseek, CY 587: The Dragon

To see, or not to see, your Thread’s ending? 
Houses veil collapsing and you, bowed to fours
hair matted, sleep mad and scurrying
to vials and pouches a knife, arrows a sword
to waive Doom’s reach anything, really, other
than the truth: a green dragon will have ye
eaten now!  Run screaming girl, hereafters
end has found you sweet, will bind yer meat to
to foulest maw, a swamp mothers crotch reeks
as raw as your shallow fate.  Clutch dear the final
breath, dear.  Grasp close your last unwinding shriek
e’en as Loki’s mounted thrall proofs your brutal
ending know thus dearest Qualmer; to brace
the trackless road as twere your final stage.

First Waterday of Fireseek, CY 587: Witnesses’ song

Last eyes running made plain the forenights slaughter

Released by lidded throat to chosen hereafters

Bid by weavework’d hands to fetch their eyes

For long they too might weave own wretched lies.

Who’s minions we, who’s minions we?  Who? Who?

Awaited we the ritual call to prey

Diving fast to prick their eyes from broken day

and dine on orbs fill’d with sordid sights

An ambush, a massacre here in passed night

Who’s minions we, who’s minions we?  Who? Who?

Good killers we and true!  Heed we Masters

bidding sooth, and unto evil bastards

flay’d claw and peck a storm of feather’d hate!

Learning sated then a lesson none too late

Who’s minions we, who’s minions we?  Who? Who?

That despite our feather’d stations sake

save for weavework we’d enjoy a samefold fate