Verse from a Vandal: Ballads of a Living Legend

[ADashofHope]

[A thoroughly ale-stained and completely true accounting of the many heroic feats of Vaskr Farsong.]

Vaskr's Vandals versus the Iron Colossus

In the deeps of the Krak where the torches dim,
 Where stone screams loud and the lights grow ,
 A beast of iron, cold and true,
 Was drawn to earth by an exile in Blue.

Its limbs were blades, its breath was flame—
A lesser man would rue the game.
 But bold was I, with glossy hair,
 And teeth that flash like Pra'raj's glare.

Vaskr bold, stood fierce and fair,
 With gleaming steel and not a care.
 A wink, a grin—my foes all fell,
 And aye, the golem did know me well.

I leapt, I sang, I split its spine,
 (While casting glances down the line).
 And there! A beauty caught my gaze—
 More fierce than steel, more sweet than praise.

"That cheer," I said, "was meant for thee—
 And so, my dear, come drink with me."

[ADashofHope]

The Beetle-King's Bane

Downward I wandered, deep through the gutters,
Steel on my shoulder, song in my mouth.
Moonlight was missing, muck rose like hunger—
There came Kan'zuzu, crowned in the filth.

Shell like a war-drum, legs like a war-cart,
Mandibles wide as a murderer's grin.
I met him laughing, blade-first and fearless—
Split through his helm with the heat of my hymn.

Triumph was mine there, bold as the sunrise,
Glory well-earned, if a bit overdue—
But Gellema grinned, and nudged with Her finger:
A slip in the slime made a jest of my shoe.

[ADashofHope]

Dead drunk among the Undead

Hear now the howl of the fen-born dead,
And the hiss of the scaled, their eyes blood-red.
When the sun sank low and the moon grew wide,
One man stood where armies died.

With axe in hand and a song on his lip,
And a grin drunk deep from the gods' own sip,
He faced a thousand with naught but cheer,
And laughter rang where men knew fear.

The ground was black with rotting throng,
The lizards hissed in serpentine song.
Their blades like rivers, their spears like rain-
Yet none could smear Vaskr's name with stain.

Were three wizards three? A rumor's dream.
'Twas the Gods that murmured in his stream.
A wink from Gellema, a howl to the sky,
And Vaskr's axe sang lullabies.

He cleaved their leader clean in twain,
Danced through their dead like a roaring flame,
Til the mound was piled with broken bone,
And Vaskr roared: "I stand alone!"

So sing of the night when the death-mists rolled,
And one mad fool grew thrice as bold.
When laughter slew what steel could not,'
And Vaskr won all the gods had sought.

[ADashofHope]

The Frostport Fillet-- A recounting by Vaskr Farsong

O, Sabotage, She of the wicked wink, the smiling Lady.
Guide our blades like you guide our lies-- swift and sudden!
Let no man win by skill alone, but by luck, or lack of it-- smiling to shame the sun!
Let the blades sing, and may none of us die pretty. 

Thus began the first Frostport Fillet in the Krak des Roses, filled with the sweet stink of wine, sweat and glory. Or perhaps that was just me, for I was there, polishing my dagger. It was a full moon that night, and thus it was only right and good to give thanks to Gellema. The crowd was alive with wagers and jeers.

The first fight was one to cheer for, certainly.

Markolo's Mightiest Monster, the man with the dragons on his chest, so named after Kusatma and Little Djinn. Drunk on rosewine, high on stardust, an old hand at the dance of daggers.

And his opponent? A seamstress Cinquefoil no larger than an onion, in a dress she had improved on straight from Angelica's Emporium. She met the Monster with a sewing needle--by all the Wheel, a sewing needle-- and stitched him up mid-spin-- literally.
Closed his mouth, patched his breeches, and sewed his pride into a tidy little pouch he'll never unzip again.

With every stab, she hemmed his fate—
His blood, her thread; his loss, her weight.

But that wasn't the fight people remember most.

No, that honor is reserved for the Marriage Duel.

See, you might have heard of the lass they call the Champion, the slayer of Iakmes. She strode into the ring and declared before all:

"Any man who can best me in single combat, I shall wed before the First Wheel."

The arena was rightly painted a new shade of crimson after that. Oh, they came calling-- and two of them still walk with a cane. But then came the Sergeant of the Fourth, he of many names, ash-dusted, Wroth-tested.

He fought like a smith hammering out answers—blunt, hot, and final.

They clashed beneath the torches. The crowd roared. I may have wept.

And then—she slipped. Just a half-step, a moment's breath.
He caught her blade, twisted, drove her down like thunder on stone.

When the dust cleared, she stared up at him—shocked, panting, cheeks redder than wine.
The crowd waited.

And the gallant Sergeant declared:

"Shall we set the date, or do I need to keep twisting your arm?"

She laughed. We could not hear what she whispered back, but a moment later, he released her. They rose together, to much applause.

The vow once made now binds her tight,
A Sergeant wins himself a fight-
And maybe more, if she don't kill,
Her groom-to-be before the Wheel.

Then came the grand melee.
Twenty of us, shirtless and shrieking, all slashing for the last word.

I leapt in like a poem without rhythm—beautiful, chaotic, impossible to follow.

Blades flew. Blood sprayed.

We all just... stayed there. Breathing heavy. No one moved.
Too sore. Too satisfied. Too tangled.

A bard began singing. Someone else began moaning. Might've been the same person.

"They say we fought, they say we fell—
In blood and lust and bruises dwell—
And Gellema watched, with wicked grin,
As shame and valor danced like kin."

And so it was. A night of vows, knives, and questionable decisions.
Just another evening in Ephia's Well.

[ADashofHope]

Twist and Shout

We met the horde in a canyon grim,
The sky was red, the odds were slim.
Six Vandals, drunk —one barely dressed—
Against a tide of horn and crest.

The chieftain roared, a mountain's son,
Fiftieth since Dalzoc's line begun.
He swung a blade the size of grief,
I scrambled about like a gallows thief.

We circled thrice, then clashed like drums,
I kissed his steel and cracked his thubs.
He fell like pride from a rooftop tale,
I rose with guts tucked in chainmail.

The horde fled fast, their will undone,
Their legend spoiled, their great one gone.
I limped away with broken breath,
Gellema smiled, a flirt with death.