Author Topic: ::{ SONGS FROM THE SHADOWS }::  (Read 172 times)

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SergeantWombat

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on: January 07, 2022, 10:16:21 PM
:{{ A slender volume with silver-edged pages that belie the darker tales within. }}:




SergeantWombat

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on: January 07, 2022, 10:17:23 PM



SergeantWombat

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on: January 07, 2022, 10:18:50 PM
« Last Edit: January 19, 2022, 05:35:40 PM by SergeantWombat »



SergeantWombat

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on: January 07, 2022, 10:20:24 PM

Just a lad was I, years gone now ago,
In the far, foggy Highlands I called home.
As bairns played we, o'er hillock, under tree,
And through the morning mountain Mist we'd roam.

Strange tales were handed down in those hills
That told of the auld mys'tries of that Mist:
To wander too far from the path, said they,
Was to be by ill fortun e'er hence kissed.

Grew did I into a right strapping gent,
A fine hunter for my clan and my Glen;
And set out for trapping late one autumn
With forty traps and near a dozen men.

Scarce were the hares and elk as we hunted,
Proper kip on the trail scarcer yet still;
The path grew e'er fainter as we wandered,
And our hunters grew weary, and some ill.

But those of us hardy enough pressed on,
For we'd families, and our word was good.
So set we off the path our trackers knew,
And roamed we deeper into darker wood.

In set the Mist, come winter's first frost,
And in the dark we lost each other's side.
So searched I for a place to pass the night,
A shallow cave or some warm place to hide.

Nestled snug 'tween thistle and amaranth,
'Twas then, there, I saw't: a small house ahead.
And dragged myself swift to its door, did I,
Blue 'pon my lips and just shy of half dead.

Thrice knocked I, 'fore the door was flung wide,
And the warmth of the house spilled out from in.
There stood she, a vision, like springtime,
A beauty I could not have hoped to ken.

"Come in at once," said she, like honey sweet,
And winter's claws melted fast away.
She told me Jenny was my savior's name,
And bade me to have a warm meal and stay.

Jenny took from me my coat, then my hand,
And sat she with me, lovely, by the fire;
Sung she to me with an angel's soft voice
And played me songs upon her holly lyre.

Ne'er had my eyes seen a lass as bonnie,
Nor hair that blazed quite so brightly red.
Jenny poured me a cup of currant wine,
And then fair Jenny took me to her bed.

By morning, we kissed our lovers' farewells,
And mournfully departed I from that place.
I swore to Jenny I'd be back come spring,
For I'd sure ne'er forget fair Jenny's face.

And returned did I swiftly, come snowmelt,
To at last make Jenny my lovely wife.
There was not another but fair Jenny
To whom I'd promise to devote my life.

Thrice knocked I; four, the door was flung wide.
But I knew something had to be awry.
There stood an old crone, as surprised as me, 
Fragile and frail of frame, milky of eye.

I explained I'd come to wed fair Jenny,
Whom I'd met but not some short weeks ago.
And she stared me down, blind in disbelief,
Ushered me away, bade I to go.

"Get ye gone at once, ye gommy fool;
And go back swiftly from whence ye came!"
But paused briefly did she, to ask of me:
"...where e'er did ye hear my Jenny's name?"

I told her how I'd found shelter, this house,
How fair Jenny had treated me so kind.
And, on my honor, I'd returned for her,
The most beautiful wife a man could find.

"Some cruel joke ye bring to my door, boy,"
The old woman spake through frightened tears.
"My Jenny's buried out in the garden,
And she's been dead now some twenty years."

« Last Edit: January 19, 2022, 06:56:27 PM by SergeantWombat »



SergeantWombat

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on: January 10, 2022, 10:24:38 PM


Out past the parks of Willowgrove,
Did my love and I go a-walkin'
Hand in hand, and o'er the Ways,
All the while courtin' and talkin'.

Stopped we for a rustic picnic lunch,
Poured I my love a rich red wine.
And not a bit the wiser was my love,
Of the poison I'd slipped in her stein.

Sure to check she was good and dead,
I used my sabre to run her through.
Threw I my love into the Willow Ways,
And held her under 'til she went blue.

Now, my Lord father, he had promised,
His name'd keep me from what I'd done.
Only had I to do this simple thing
And n'ermore be a Lord's bastard son.

I poisoned, stabbed, and drowned my love,
And watched the light leave her gaze.
But now, I reckon I might've done wrong
By my love out in the Willow Ways.

Rope 'round my neck, a-waitin', was I,
When I heard her on the mornin' breeze:
Swear I the hangman loosed his axe
To weepin' in the willow trees.

« Last Edit: January 19, 2022, 06:56:15 PM by SergeantWombat »



SergeantWombat

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on: January 18, 2022, 05:02:43 PM

One, for the Changeling upon the pyre,
The noose of the Past tight 'round their neck.
Two, for the groats in the Old Man's purse
And the Names of debtors he won't forget.

Three, for the Highlands, cinders and ash,
Up in war's flames, burning Ruby red.
Four, for the Wine, o'erripe on the vine,
And the price of a Feast table's bread.

Five, for the Lady, tired of waiting,
And her husbands' Blood on her hands.
Six, for the echo of the absent Lord
And the Memory made of his lands.

Seven, for the Castle with empty halls
And the battles its Bricks have won.
Eight, for Promises made in the dark:
To dim no lights, save for the Sun.

Nine, for the King, in the innermost Ring,
The maze through the Mist to glory.
Ten, for the End, to begin again,
And the Fool who dares to tell the story.

« Last Edit: January 19, 2022, 06:56:07 PM by SergeantWombat »



SergeantWombat

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on: January 19, 2022, 05:35:00 PM

From the very first day, I favoured him,
As soon as our eyes wandered and met;
For his were a shade of striking blue-violet,
Hardly a shade a man's soon to forget.

Like the flowers abloom by the riverside
Was the coy color of his tentative gaze;
I could picture him there, down by the water,
Even candles after we'd gone our own ways.

On the second day, I brought him a blossom,
And I promised I'd show him that place.
I said, "Walk with me, and at last be free.
And we'll set our own gentle pace."

He considered each blue-violet petal in turn,
Looked to me with a small, nervous swallow.
And soft did I ask, "May I take your hand,
Take your sadness? Won't you follow?"

On the third day, did at last we wander, 
Down by the Scarbeak for a short while.
There in the flowers, I first kissed him,
Tousled hair as untamed as his smile.

When our lips met I knew I had known it,
That in any life I'd have favoured him so;
But stolen kisses, too, are violet-blue,
And like wildflowers, gone once they grow.

On the last day, we went back to the water,
And together, on the bank, there we lay.
The pace of the river ran gentle but strong,
And carried the noise of our evening away.

And soft did I whisper, "All beauty must die,"
And brought down the heavy rock in my fist.
Then kissed him goodbye, a last gift from I:
Blue-violet petals placed 'pon his lips.

« Last Edit: January 19, 2022, 06:55:58 PM by SergeantWombat »