The Layonara Community > Poetic License

Farros Galdor: Cursed Hymns of Unmaking

(1/4) > >>

Fimbul winter, dawn of darkness
Blackened storm clouds streak the sky
Rage within us, flames grow higher
We march to war, hear our cry

When ere the leaves of the world tree's fallen
Skeletal limbs rattle with gusts of gloom
Kingdom in ruins, the tyrant lay rotting
March upon them, these days of doom

Towers swaying, god slaves praying
Across the fields the lamb shrieks, braying
Red dragon's rage from a shattered cage
Long were the days of kinsmen's slaying
The wells have all shattered and dried long ago
Long since hath been the light of day
Throne, crown and shield all lost and shattered
Here where the corpse of the world doth lay.

Oh tortured sullen peaks
Weep thy rage to the winds
Scaley wings of horror
At the gates where death and hell
All begin

Storm clouds snowing, darkness growing
Heretical hymns sung upon gusts of gloom
Without our savior, Bloodstone fallen
We die upon these dark days of doom

When ere the leaves of the world tree's fallen
Skeletal limbs rattle with gusts of gloom
Empire shattered, the tyrant lay rotting
March upon them, these days of doom

Great job :) I always love hearing the things Farros has to say in-game. He's a very fun character! Really enjoyed the poem song thing though.

Thanks.  I try to make him extra-gloomy being both a tiefling and a skald, essentially a doom-obsessed melodramatic metal bard.  Now that dragons are unleashed and the sun and moon were eaten by wolves (ie: the dark cloud came) his view of the world is beginning to parallel old legends of Ragnarok, though not implicitly.  He also sees Bloodstone as the Savior of the World, and blames the heroes who slew him for the dark ages of dragondeath that came upon us in the wake of his defeat, so I'll start writing more dedicated to Sinthar's greatness, perhaps even a shakespearean style tragedy about his initial fall from grace and exile into the lower planes.


How could there ever be
a thing as wretched as a tree?

Dormantly yearning to race the rock to nowhere
Every Autumn shedding, like an old man losing hair
To be chewed inside and chattered
with squirrel droppings aptly scattered
in the gullet of your trunk
Protected by the activists who may
use your corpse for a hierophant staff one day
the totality of existence just to make more junk.

Termites tunneling veins through the rings of your heart
axemen marching, determined to rip you apart
Oh how wretched it is to be a tree
bereft of gender, love or sexuality

Should I drink, must I pray for rain?
Should I think, would others hear my pain?
Should I cry out, would anybody hear me?
Should I dry out, what would be left of me?

Stoic is the soldier standing ever still
watching kin crash down from yon wooded hill
Helpless be he with no legs to walk free
Nothing's more wretched than to be a tree.


Mighty doom, how I court thy fair countenance
to pass from my lips and rain chaos as the world rips
Feast of thy body, drink of thy blood
Doom sandwiches with lettuce, tomato, barley bread floating in the mud
And ere was the mustard, black enough for mine sustanance?
With fetid tater fries, oh succulent world as it dies.
Might I feast on mine doom, well past the expiration date?
As it sticks and it slivers from mine fork on the dinner plate.
The blade saws portions from the body as it writhes,
whence savage hunger picks thee apart in tithes.
Gluttony dripping dark lamentation from mine maw,
still I feel it wriggling as it dies upon my jaw.
Oh Fie! Oh madness! What is wrong with mine head?
Tis not doom, but leeches I dine upon instead!


[0] Message Index

[#] Next page

There was an error while thanking
Go to full version