A Bard Song

A Bard Song: Of Lord Arion and the Fall of Daltarus

The smold’ring orb lies dangling o’er the seas
Which faintly sparkle ‘neath the golden sky,
Whilst sister moons wait, hiding ‘twixt the trees,
Too sheepish yet, to take their place on high.
A briny breeze roams in as branches sigh,
And gently sways the mantle of the lord.
He stands upon the walls with stoic eyes,
That gaze upon the massive gathered horde.
He musters all the fading hope he can afford..

And as the forces of the dusk advance,
To rid the earth of flagrant light of day,
So untold ranks take up the battle stance,
With sharpened blades to feast upon their prey.
These are the grounds where Death will soon hold sway,
And ripe will be the Reaper’s harvest field.
Can stone and steel alone hold hosts at bay?
Or shall the lord, by might, be forced to yield?
Now stripped of all but grit, his courage is his shield.

A distant chill, the Shadow’s call, he feels;
Its woeful knock upon his mind’s strong doors.
So also do his fleshly foes draw near,          
To raze the mammoth gates they stand before.
The Krondere Lord prepares his tools of war,
Whose clanging gears ring shrill in solemn heads,
As blazing shot is set, prepared to soar,
And whetted bolts seek stone and flesh to shred.
The flames of siege and Night within in his heart now spread.

The breath of silence steeps his daunted soul,
A screaming calm that rives the twilight air.
Then all at once the bells of chaos toll,
When darkened sky erupts in gleaming flare.
This flood of fire craves nothing to be spared,
As every hope is shattered by its dive.
If not stemmed soon, this hail would lay them bare,
His men would fold, their will he must revive,
Against a foe as this, the hopeless shan’t survive.

The mortar’s hiss, the sick’ning crack of stone,
Is herald of the garrison’s demise.
The tangs of flesh ablaze and charcoaled bone,
Now mingle with their piercing, baleful cries.
Reflections of th’inferno in his eyes,
Cavorting flames that mock with godless fete,
Are mirrors of the blaze beneath his guise,
A duel with darkness, rage he longs to sate.
The Shadow nearer looms; he feels its crushing weight.

The outer wall was lost; they must fall back.
‘Twas time that now would prove their greatest foe,
For allies sail with numbers that they lack,
But many leagues they still have yet to row.
The keep would be the last retreat from woe,
Their final stand, with backs upon the wall.
The gate barred shut, and hope flown long ago,
‘Tis Death’s dark voice that echoes through the hall.
These streets aglow that once lay proud are set to fall.

With drumming thuds upon the oaken door,
He steels his men and casts his doubts aside.
To slake its thirst, he draws his sanguine whore,
And turns toward his general at his side.
By only solemn nod, ‘tis all implied.
His hands grow warm, familiar ‘bout his blade.
When finally doors are shattered, bursting wide,
They loose a cry like none that’s e’er been made,
And charge the hosts with reckless zeal that can’t be stayed.

Their singing steel paints crimson through the air,
But every score they fell shows two-fold more.
So man by man, they pay their ferry fare,
‘Till even Argo stands at Reaper’s door.
He bellows forth a fearsome, beastly roar,
And madly cleaves the life from fiendish spawn.
He no more heeds his swelling flood of gore,
For sans remorse, he goes to meet the dawn,
And as he falls, his final gaze meets Arion’s

That empty stare emblazed upon his mind,
The Lord’s infernal rage explodes anew.
With this great fuel his soul, does darkness bind.
His eyes turn black and Shadow flows him through.
The untold hordes, his hands unguided hew,
When near at last, is seen a host of sails.
With every shred of might, that still was true,
He lifts his sword with long impassioned wail,
And plunges through the Shadow’s heart, “you’ll not prevail!”

*

And so by selfless sacrifice, his purpose is fulfilled,
With darkness scattered from the land, a peace they now can build.