The Unknown, prt II

II


Now we return to the tale
Our leading man led astray
The sleeping gods' humor
The source of his dismay
Recalling his travels
Behind him nothing remains
but smoke and blood
Untouched by cleansing rains

In these endless travels
Through the land of Sæη
A nation so decrepit
Translated as "Life Bane"
It was there he found
Or rather was found by
An aging presbyter
Who worshipped the sky

"M'lord, a word if you please"
Was his husky request
Yet one more priest
Just like all the rest
This old prëost
His frame hung in robes
Skeletal in his build
Must have balls the size of globes

"Bother me not little man,"
Replied our angry fellow
As he strode away calmly
Remaining relatively mellow
Yet this wizened prëost
He would not be denied
The Skylord Anuìn almighty
Would likely see him fried

On and on he declaimed
Until his quarry paused
And so became silent
Faced with anger he caused
"Please, my lord,"
The man began to beg,
"Do me no harm
Long is the road ahead."

"Get you gone old one,
I've no use for your lord
Until, perhaps, one day
When he will taste my sword."
Astonished at these words
The presbyter began to sweat
But he'd not give up
Only trying harder yet

In his long discourse
Unperturbed by his eyes
Was summarily ignored
Which came as a surprise
Is this man not pious
Does he not fear Anuìn's wrath
Thus the minister thought
Along the forlorn path

Having heard enough now
Of a god he knew slept
Into forbidden lore
Was where he had stepped
"You should know your lord
Strong as he may be
Has slept for so very long
He is of no concern to me"

"Heresy," cried the presbyter
"Enough of your lies,
Now you must be punished!"
Never noticing his eyes
Darkening as they did
Those eyes ceased to see
Save only his prey
And so his blade came free

Shocked by these actions
With no guards he could call
He took it upon himself
To escalate the brawl
Flames of mighty Anuìn
Crimson at their base
Aimed by the prëost
At the other's face

Surrounded by those flames
Yet untouched by heat
The last thought of our man
Was of cowardly retreat
Onward he came
Bringing his blade high
Committed to one thing
That this fool should die

Not so easily defeated
The presbyter began to chant
Summoning his god
To kill this unholy sant
Yet nothing happened
Nor could it at that
The holyman doomed to die
Helpless as a rat

Down came the blade
Sharp as morning frost
All reason and sanity
Now completely lost
Dark red globules
Spattered through the air
Decorating from his boots
To his unkempt hair

No sooner did he fall
Sinking to his knees
The same gods he cursed
Slumbered through his pleas
Agony swept like fire
Through a dry field
Giving him no rest
Nor allowing him to yield

Hours passed unnoticed
Convulsing as he lay
His whole world pain
Where he was made to stay
Night had long since fallen
When he could finally stand
Though tremors gripped him still
In this foreign land