Post by sheriff on Feb 6, 2022 23:21:15 GMT
Skald
"They call me poet; skilled smith of verses."
Dreams
"They call me poet; skilled smith of verses."
Dreams
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
In this valley of sand and dust thundered the hooves of tens of thousands of steeds; in this valley, stretched wide beneath distant Calida, did hundreds of thousands of hearts beat against trembling breast. Then came that wicked light- the rune-glow which portends death- stretching forth down the nearing line, fell-glow rising like the osprey's wings as it takes flight to the water. Afore their sailing orbs of death, the sands rippled in whirled in beauteous geometry—the mockery of a forgotten god, teasing the eyes of his doomed children with a final image of perfect creation. Perhaps he thought it ironic; a fitting punishment, for those rebel children who thought themselves fit to unmake that of his making.
First to fall was the banner of Framandar Tamen, the Wolf of the High Plains; descended to the dust, as the arm holding it disintegrated into little more than a spray of pink-red and dull-white. Such was the fate of dozens more in that wicked sphere's path—bodies mangled beyond recognition, trampled beyond salvation by comrades, by water-brothers, who rode on with death screaming up from bellowing breast. Next was Farmandar Ghazi, swiftly followed by Spahbed Niloufar whose company was caught in a web of lightning-shot, and whose slaughter filled the air with the stench of cooked flesh; the miasma of char quickly pushed through by the swiftest steeds of the sands.
Before the second volley was loosed, was bow-range reached; black became the color of the crystal sky those war-hollowed folk- stuffed with sensations of savagery- struggled beneath. Horsebows whittled from the finest timbers of Lutra sent death across a span the crafters of man could only dream of—sent arrows whistling into shields and plate, but no few broadheads slipped beneath the cracks in the great casings the giants wore, delivering an ignoble death like vipers in the dunes. Gaps in the pike-wall quickly filled; cannoneers squirming in frothing pools of their blood hurridly dragged away to make space for their kindred.
So was death exchanged across the air; cannons and bows loosing shot after shot of wretched death. The banners of Sardars fell like dates from the branch at harvest. Even the great desert hawk of the grand Aspbad, clad in his gleaming golden scales, was shrouded in smoke as fragment-shot exploded in the midst of the first company—a furious cry of vengeance rising up, only to be replaced by one of elation as he was seen surging forth to lead his wedge of cataphracts with charred banner clutched in shield-hand, and lance leveled to bring death upon the crumbling ranks of the pike-bearers.
Then there was I, one amongst so many. Shape without form, gesture without motion; I knew myself caught in the dream which I dreaded, the reminder of descent from the plateaus. The grand day of victory for the Solarium, whence the northern host was crushed so decisively against the rivers beneath. The grand day of death, the grand day of ruin for so many houses. The grand day in which my second-brother's shredded remains were pounded into the dirt by his companymen, as they struggled to regain the Aspbad's banner. These were the thoughts of the I which came after.
The I which came before thought of none of this; that I thought only of ensuring their mount, brought forth from the distant oasis of birth, rode steady as it had for years and years. That I thought only of drawing and loosing in that wordless rhythm of the cataphract—time not to the useless bellows of one sergeant beneath the raucous tremor of so many steads, but to the pace of those steads themselves. Seamlessly did that I sow flying death into the heavens; seamlessly did it fall upon the foe-man, sometimes in vain but sometimes in purchase into his flesh.
That I which came before did not hear the rising crescendos of our great song, that I could now hear when that I crashed into the routing fore-ranks. Audible even over the din of buckling metal and screeching horse, it tugs at my ears and wraps shackles about my skull; pulling me further into the dream, further from the world of which its dreadfully wonderous tune was borne. That I heard only the shouted curses of the foe-man felled beneath saber, drawn now as the lance was lost- buried in the breast of some petty thane- and great lines wheeled to escape the muck of the melee. No few kinsmen were lost to the reprisals of those giants and dwarves who had stood despite the break of their initial formation; dragged from steed and minced into unrecognizable meat. The perception of such escaped that I; for that I thought only of life—preserving their own, in particular.
Breaking free, the horns resounded to call for harassment down the lines; to beat their infantry foolish enough to stand before our bows into submission of Irokan's will. The cannons, at such range, would have been deadly—were it not for the fact that our own bows were more numerous and more swift to loose. Those grudge-bearing folk, adhering to fool's oath, trudged endlessly through their dead kin to try and make those cannons resound once more. Some few managed to fulfill their sworn word. Many more, died in failure. Soon we had sundered the flanks which against the walls of the valley, and pressed ourselves about their host; soon did the great banner of Solas crash upon what remained of the northern host, sending them into a rout towards a fordless river which offered them no succor. Soon did the Sun-King, his helmet's war-mask dread-visaged, raise the severed head of the foe-man's commander.
That I thought it a sight of splendor. Now, the I which came after can only think of the other death-warped faces of folk which littered the field. I can think only of the thunder, and wonder at the fact that I was not among those who would never heart it again for all of their days. That even in the future fields upon which I would ride, I would yet carry that thunder of battle in my drumming heart; that despite knowing so many who had much to return to, that knowing would soon turn to merely a preserving of memory in their passing.
Why was I among those to live? What particular qualities did I possess, that the Arzbad saw drilled into myself, but not my brothers-in-arms?
Was it all, in the end, just for a song?
In this hollow valley
In this valley of sand and dust thundered the hooves of tens of thousands of steeds; in this valley, stretched wide beneath distant Calida, did hundreds of thousands of hearts beat against trembling breast. Then came that wicked light- the rune-glow which portends death- stretching forth down the nearing line, fell-glow rising like the osprey's wings as it takes flight to the water. Afore their sailing orbs of death, the sands rippled in whirled in beauteous geometry—the mockery of a forgotten god, teasing the eyes of his doomed children with a final image of perfect creation. Perhaps he thought it ironic; a fitting punishment, for those rebel children who thought themselves fit to unmake that of his making.
First to fall was the banner of Framandar Tamen, the Wolf of the High Plains; descended to the dust, as the arm holding it disintegrated into little more than a spray of pink-red and dull-white. Such was the fate of dozens more in that wicked sphere's path—bodies mangled beyond recognition, trampled beyond salvation by comrades, by water-brothers, who rode on with death screaming up from bellowing breast. Next was Farmandar Ghazi, swiftly followed by Spahbed Niloufar whose company was caught in a web of lightning-shot, and whose slaughter filled the air with the stench of cooked flesh; the miasma of char quickly pushed through by the swiftest steeds of the sands.
Before the second volley was loosed, was bow-range reached; black became the color of the crystal sky those war-hollowed folk- stuffed with sensations of savagery- struggled beneath. Horsebows whittled from the finest timbers of Lutra sent death across a span the crafters of man could only dream of—sent arrows whistling into shields and plate, but no few broadheads slipped beneath the cracks in the great casings the giants wore, delivering an ignoble death like vipers in the dunes. Gaps in the pike-wall quickly filled; cannoneers squirming in frothing pools of their blood hurridly dragged away to make space for their kindred.
So was death exchanged across the air; cannons and bows loosing shot after shot of wretched death. The banners of Sardars fell like dates from the branch at harvest. Even the great desert hawk of the grand Aspbad, clad in his gleaming golden scales, was shrouded in smoke as fragment-shot exploded in the midst of the first company—a furious cry of vengeance rising up, only to be replaced by one of elation as he was seen surging forth to lead his wedge of cataphracts with charred banner clutched in shield-hand, and lance leveled to bring death upon the crumbling ranks of the pike-bearers.
Then there was I, one amongst so many. Shape without form, gesture without motion; I knew myself caught in the dream which I dreaded, the reminder of descent from the plateaus. The grand day of victory for the Solarium, whence the northern host was crushed so decisively against the rivers beneath. The grand day of death, the grand day of ruin for so many houses. The grand day in which my second-brother's shredded remains were pounded into the dirt by his companymen, as they struggled to regain the Aspbad's banner. These were the thoughts of the I which came after.
The I which came before thought of none of this; that I thought only of ensuring their mount, brought forth from the distant oasis of birth, rode steady as it had for years and years. That I thought only of drawing and loosing in that wordless rhythm of the cataphract—time not to the useless bellows of one sergeant beneath the raucous tremor of so many steads, but to the pace of those steads themselves. Seamlessly did that I sow flying death into the heavens; seamlessly did it fall upon the foe-man, sometimes in vain but sometimes in purchase into his flesh.
That I which came before did not hear the rising crescendos of our great song, that I could now hear when that I crashed into the routing fore-ranks. Audible even over the din of buckling metal and screeching horse, it tugs at my ears and wraps shackles about my skull; pulling me further into the dream, further from the world of which its dreadfully wonderous tune was borne. That I heard only the shouted curses of the foe-man felled beneath saber, drawn now as the lance was lost- buried in the breast of some petty thane- and great lines wheeled to escape the muck of the melee. No few kinsmen were lost to the reprisals of those giants and dwarves who had stood despite the break of their initial formation; dragged from steed and minced into unrecognizable meat. The perception of such escaped that I; for that I thought only of life—preserving their own, in particular.
Breaking free, the horns resounded to call for harassment down the lines; to beat their infantry foolish enough to stand before our bows into submission of Irokan's will. The cannons, at such range, would have been deadly—were it not for the fact that our own bows were more numerous and more swift to loose. Those grudge-bearing folk, adhering to fool's oath, trudged endlessly through their dead kin to try and make those cannons resound once more. Some few managed to fulfill their sworn word. Many more, died in failure. Soon we had sundered the flanks which against the walls of the valley, and pressed ourselves about their host; soon did the great banner of Solas crash upon what remained of the northern host, sending them into a rout towards a fordless river which offered them no succor. Soon did the Sun-King, his helmet's war-mask dread-visaged, raise the severed head of the foe-man's commander.
That I thought it a sight of splendor. Now, the I which came after can only think of the other death-warped faces of folk which littered the field. I can think only of the thunder, and wonder at the fact that I was not among those who would never heart it again for all of their days. That even in the future fields upon which I would ride, I would yet carry that thunder of battle in my drumming heart; that despite knowing so many who had much to return to, that knowing would soon turn to merely a preserving of memory in their passing.
Why was I among those to live? What particular qualities did I possess, that the Arzbad saw drilled into myself, but not my brothers-in-arms?
Was it all, in the end, just for a song?
"What is a skald, but this?"