So ends the tale of Shane the Champion.
Of his blood-brother, Varr the Last-to-Flee.
Of Klau the Berserker, called the Blacksword.
Of the Old Man, who some hold was a god.
Of the lost Witchfolk, and their young Lady
Who solely of her people is not lost.
Of Sulfur Carrier, curse its hidden name.
And of the hallowed dead. And I am tired.
As does a man in victory still slump
Within his armor, and still pant for breath,
For victory or not, the fight was hard,
The wounds real wounds, the pain real suffering,
For how else could the story of it be
Worth half the telling? So alike I ache
From long and fevered speech. The muses have,
If muses it has been that brought me here,
More than fulfilled their ancient fame. I can
Ask nothing further of them, but farewell.
Look not for me again. I am consumed.
No further verses can my soul produce.
In that I am content. Only a fool
Expects all victory without a cost.
The wise man does what task he came to do
And waits for death, the gentle sister, to
Take him from here to where his next awaits.
This song has been unspoken for too long.
Too long the place it should have been was bare.
Too long thin silence sole possessed the air.
Too long we felt the lack of it, in this
The world of petty things. At least we know,
Now that Shane's tale has reached our ears at last,
That one of us at least has broken through
To be as we in secret hope to be,
To do what we in secret yearn to do.
No comments yet. Be the first!