Kistilan
11-03-2009, 11:42 PM
"There isn't a moment I thought I'd live to tell this tale," said one stagnant voice, irely glancing off the wall of the old mason's home. A stone bench sat before him as he paced, his thoughts deeply perplexing his shaven face and dark furrowed brow. The man stood nearly 6'3" tall and had to stoop within the building's confines. His strong arms were covered in sinew and scars, testaments to the battles he had witnessed in prior wars.
"You won, that's what's important, warsinger," crowed the mason. His short legs dangled under the bench and his bald head was covered in beads of sweat as he'd nearly set his work down only moments ago when his visitor appeared as a shadow against the moonlight. The mason was a rudy-colored fellow, nigh as high as an adolescent boy and with as round belly as a blossoming mother -- true dwarven stature would be none proper than to tout his beard proudly and its locks of dark bearded hair clung to the foam of his first beer poured from underneath the counter where he kept his private stock. The mason lingered a moment longer in silence before he echoed, "Tell us a song of what became your foes."
The warsinger's neck shivererd as he thought of all the men and beasts slain in the last three months, his steel and resolve buckling slightly under the intense images beckoned to his mind. Sadly, he turned to the mason and swung a worn shoulder against the bench seat with a resounding hit that shook the dwarf and hearth alike. Anger flared across his forelorn visage and a streak of hatred mired his eyes in deep thought. "No, there is no song for what became of my foes in this prolonged battle.... There is nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing."
The dwarf scooted off his seat and settled himself upon the stone floor. His wits and nerves were wracked by the blow of the Warsinger against his slate bench. Never had he felt so ostracized in his own home, but he dare not turn an old friend back -- a friend that had once smiled under the stars with him in his youth.
"Renn, you'll be right as rain soon enough. Let the song flow. Your anger will subside and with it your fears and hatred. Time will let the pain ebb..." A dwarf knew a thing or two, and time was one of those peculiar things that allowed all old lessons to fade into a white frothy beer and misty ale.
The man's shoulders went limp and he slumped against the mason's bench, his eyes watering in sorrow. A single tear escaped his cold blue eyes. He sat looking low as his friend watched him from the stone floor. He nodded softly, a few choked notes cracking before his voice lifted....
"'Twas a night.... and day.....
Long remembered, and gay...
Two kingdoms crossed, two unions married.
Their lights were lit, their futures unwarried.
There came a sound, unlike the morning dawn
A lie was spun, around the yearling fawn.
And greater sorrow, spread across her morn
His answer soon, he spurred her scorn.
There came a war, where many died.
There was no love, no vow, only pride.
And when they called, the town's retort.
They fell in tow, they accepted the sport.
A blight was caused, a curse upon the sacred land.
Their vows were broken, of wife and man.
Suddenly, in the twilight fell.
The woman's craze, the man in hell.
Twisted visages, unknown face.
Spiked and bloodied, the union's mace.
And here we lie, a gallant knight.
Who drew her blood, with his in sight."
At the end of his song the warsinger's knees rested upon the cold mason's floor. His eyes were closes and all anger was absent from his soft visage. A few cool consonsants escaped his lips but he sang no more as he thought of the deeds and reflected. His bloodied mace clanked across the mason's stone cold floor and the old dwarf wondered which of 70 days had Renn sang about this eve.
"You won, that's what's important, warsinger," crowed the mason. His short legs dangled under the bench and his bald head was covered in beads of sweat as he'd nearly set his work down only moments ago when his visitor appeared as a shadow against the moonlight. The mason was a rudy-colored fellow, nigh as high as an adolescent boy and with as round belly as a blossoming mother -- true dwarven stature would be none proper than to tout his beard proudly and its locks of dark bearded hair clung to the foam of his first beer poured from underneath the counter where he kept his private stock. The mason lingered a moment longer in silence before he echoed, "Tell us a song of what became your foes."
The warsinger's neck shivererd as he thought of all the men and beasts slain in the last three months, his steel and resolve buckling slightly under the intense images beckoned to his mind. Sadly, he turned to the mason and swung a worn shoulder against the bench seat with a resounding hit that shook the dwarf and hearth alike. Anger flared across his forelorn visage and a streak of hatred mired his eyes in deep thought. "No, there is no song for what became of my foes in this prolonged battle.... There is nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing."
The dwarf scooted off his seat and settled himself upon the stone floor. His wits and nerves were wracked by the blow of the Warsinger against his slate bench. Never had he felt so ostracized in his own home, but he dare not turn an old friend back -- a friend that had once smiled under the stars with him in his youth.
"Renn, you'll be right as rain soon enough. Let the song flow. Your anger will subside and with it your fears and hatred. Time will let the pain ebb..." A dwarf knew a thing or two, and time was one of those peculiar things that allowed all old lessons to fade into a white frothy beer and misty ale.
The man's shoulders went limp and he slumped against the mason's bench, his eyes watering in sorrow. A single tear escaped his cold blue eyes. He sat looking low as his friend watched him from the stone floor. He nodded softly, a few choked notes cracking before his voice lifted....
"'Twas a night.... and day.....
Long remembered, and gay...
Two kingdoms crossed, two unions married.
Their lights were lit, their futures unwarried.
There came a sound, unlike the morning dawn
A lie was spun, around the yearling fawn.
And greater sorrow, spread across her morn
His answer soon, he spurred her scorn.
There came a war, where many died.
There was no love, no vow, only pride.
And when they called, the town's retort.
They fell in tow, they accepted the sport.
A blight was caused, a curse upon the sacred land.
Their vows were broken, of wife and man.
Suddenly, in the twilight fell.
The woman's craze, the man in hell.
Twisted visages, unknown face.
Spiked and bloodied, the union's mace.
And here we lie, a gallant knight.
Who drew her blood, with his in sight."
At the end of his song the warsinger's knees rested upon the cold mason's floor. His eyes were closes and all anger was absent from his soft visage. A few cool consonsants escaped his lips but he sang no more as he thought of the deeds and reflected. His bloodied mace clanked across the mason's stone cold floor and the old dwarf wondered which of 70 days had Renn sang about this eve.