Acquisitions

I am a man of business deals,
With wealth enough to grease the wheels,
For any acquisition or debate,
And early in my life I learned,
That what all business people yearned
For is the treasure trove of real estate.

This knowledge seemed a precious truth,
So from my waning days of youth,
I set out for my task with gold in hand,
And that is how, and that is why,
I set upon my path to buy
Each tract that I could see of valued land.

And for a time, I rented, leased,
Those lands as profits never ceased;
That endless stream of coinage brought yet more:
I bought a mountain valley home,
I bought the woods where meeplings roam,
I even bought a stretch of ocean shore.

But then I learned another way,
To gain some land and never pay;
The lesson brought me countless pains and tears.
The lands that I had fairly bought
Were lost to those who came to squat,
And held from me behind those Orcish sneers.

They came, at first, from up the hills,
While seeking new and deadly thrills,
And wandered down into my valley there.
I let them come throughout the night;
I didn’t want to start a fight.
The next thing that I knew, it was their lair.

They never paid a single gold,
For any of that valley hold,
They didn’t seem to think it had a cost.
But I’m no match for Orcish brawn;
The valley is as good as gone,
A written-off expense that now I’ve lost.

As if that loss weren’t bad enough,
The problem started getting rough,
When bands of Orcs began to claim the trees.
They moved into that forest deep,
While I and mine were fast asleep,
And still, I thought it best that I appease.

Now, looking back, I so regret,
That I’d forgive and, more, forget,
I wish I’d sent some troops there to defend.
I’d lost my valley, lost my woods,
And countless stocks of priceless goods.
This was a most upsetting downward trend.

But still those squatters would not stop,
As they pressed on to set up shop,
Along my beautiful and pristine beach.
I’ve lost that vast, majestic view,
To this, the things these Orcs can do:
The harshest lesson that this life could teach.

It makes me angry, drives me mad,
These Orcs have taken all I had,
From mountain stones out to the spreading waters.
It’s true, I have my loving wife,
My children, too, and all my life,
But all my land is lost to Orcish Squatters!

Ice

In endless, frozen caverns where the wind
Comes whipping through the tunnels like a wave,
You’ll find your very blood has cooled and thinned,
Much like those souls entombed within the grave.
And all that frigid power can be used,
Not by the cowards, those who dwell in fear,
In fact, the power’s meant to be abused,
Perhaps by he that holds this simple sphere.
Until the flame of your desire cools
Like frozen shards of crystalline perfection,
Another freezing blast will set your rules
To grow inside you like a dark infection.
Oh, is it you or I that pays the price
Reverberating through that endless ice?

The Ballad of Korinth Dane

A world of living metal calmly floats
Beneath a polished, brilliant golden sun,
And on a sea of silver sail the boats,
Whose steely hulls will gleam upon their run.

The forest canopy’s an iron mesh,
Beneath which small metallic creatures curl,
And yet this plane has got its share of flesh,
Which looks with jealousy about the world.

One starlit night, a little boy was born,
Without one drop of metal in his veins.
His metal/fleshy parents looked with scorn
Upon their young Korinth, of family Dane.

As Dane then aged, he constantly was mocked
By others who by metal were infused.
His childhood was like a prison locked
Behind him as he was, by them, abused.

He came of age and had to choose a craft,
A trade that he could train in and be skilled,
The others all insulted him and laughed,
That he would join the Metalworkers Guild.

His application took almost a year,
He tirelessly worked to fill the blanks,
And though rejection came to be his fear,
Eventually, they let him in their ranks.

For half a decade, he would study there,
With scarcely a promotion well in sight,
While others flourished; it was hardly fair,
He knew that something here just wasn’t right.

One day when he was dusting off his shelf,
Within his tiny room, both cold and dim,
He got a note: the Canonist herself,
She wished to have a private word with him.

The Canonist was less of flesh than steel,
A paragon of metal, clean and hard,
She hardly seemed, in fact, like she were real,
And looked upon him with a cold regard.

“Your studies,” said she with a tinny voice,
“Are less than satisfying us, Korinth.
And so I think I’ll offer you a choice:
Stay here and fail, or brave the Labyrinth.”

The young man’s skin broke out into a sweat,
His eyes grew wide; his pupils grew as well,
To walk the Labyrinth: to pay a debt,
That you had not incurred on land or hell.

The Canonist dismissed the younger man,
Who spent the coming days and nights in thought,
He knew that he would have to make a plan;
She said it was a choice, but it was not.

A fortnight hence, Korinth was led below,
And to a gate inlaid with filigree,
His metal mentors left him there to go
Beyond into the torment it would be.

The entrance to the Labyrinth was large,
But what the metalworker noticed most,
Was one huge chair, a throne for those in charge,
And on that chair there sat a charcoal ghost.

She looked on him with dead, impassive eyes,
And spoke, her voice a whisper on the wind,
“You’ve come to me, but do you realize,
How much this place will leave your mind chagrined?”

“I’ve come to learn the truth of metalwork,”
Said Dane with all the courage he could bring,
The specter shook her head and with a smirk,
She pointed while the wind began to sing.

He took a breath, then walked into the maze,
Enveloped in a strange, unearthly fog,
And as he worked his way into that haze,
He argued with his inner monologue.

Korinth had no idea how long he walked,
It may have been for weeks, or days at least,
Each path he took eventually was blocked,
And every day his hopes to win decreased.

But then he came upon a dead-end path,
And heard a clanging from behind his track,
He turned; his sweat had drenched him like a bath,
It was a man, he thought, of metal black.

Its slumped and drooping shoulders spoke of sorrows,
Its leg-bent gait a step away from lame,
It seemed to dread the thought of more tomorrows,
And melancholy cloaked his darkened frame.

It moved, though you could hardly call it “life,”
It stared at Dane with eyes that must be blind,
But then it slowly drew a pristine knife,
And stabbed itself, but left no wound behind.

It held out to its sides both of its hands,
The knife’s metallic length was twisted, bent,
It shook its head, then slumped down where it stands,
But still Korinth did not know what it meant.

The metal man looked like an ending storm,
And something in its presence made Dane grieve,
But carefully Korinth pressed past its form,
And hurried on his way to turn and leave.

Korinth continued through those endless halls,
Whose paths were twisted, turned, and even crossed,
It all looked much the same, the floor, the walls,
And soon it was quite clear that Dane was lost.

The metal man weighed much upon his mind,
This most disturbing thing that he could see,
It’s lost forever, in this maze confined,
The prison known as immortality.

He grew to know what terror was about,
And all his future started looking grim,
Then soon, a darkness, shadow of his doubt,
Would be the enemy that ended him.

He wished for all the metalworks to burn,
The grave injustice of it made him cry,
He thought they’d sent him to this place to learn,
When clearly he’d been sentenced here to die.

His very shadow grew within his brain,
Like choking dust that piles on a shelf,
It grew into a strong and pressing pain,
That even Korinth knew he caused himself.

And then his shade became a living thing,
As mocking laughter sounded from above,
The shadow struck, a dark and deadly sting,
That grasped his heart as though a hand in glove.

And in that moment, Dane collapsed in awe,
So near to death, just hanging on the brink,
And deep within his mind, the young man saw
A glimpse at what the world would never think.

At least his world, for there were others now,
As many as the waves on silver seas,
For suddenly, he seemed to know somehow,
About the planes and Blind Eternities.

His eyes, in fear and terror, opened wide,
But all the Labyrinth had disappeared,
And in its place, a forested lakeside,
With non-metallic leaves, alive and weird.

It took him months to learn of what he was,
And of the magic flowing through his veins,
He found a mentor, took to him because
Of his desire now to walk the planes.

He spent his time researching, for an answer,
And thought about it everywhere he’d roam,
In time, he came to be a pyromancer,
And thought to bring the fire to his home.

He realized that world was just a prison,
A metal cell that locked all life away,
For with no death, had life truly arisen?
Without a night, is hell just endless day?

And so he sought out ever hotter flames,
To smelt the metal of that distant place,
The curses that he spoke invoked the names
Of all that world and its metallic face.

He tirelessly worked for several years,
And pyromancers learned the name of Dane,
At all his triumphs, they gave out their cheers,
But never more than his fires of Bane.

They burned as hot as dragon fire could,
And all his colleagues praised him for his skill,
It burned through metal like it’s made of wood,
And yet he worked ‘til it was hotter still.

Korinth believed that everything could burn,
By flames as cone, or burst, or wave, or ball,
But he was ready now for his return,
Intent to bring an ending to them all.

When he stepped back into that world, it’s dull
And lifeless air was like a leaden weight,
And as he sucked his breath into his skull,
He set his purpose to obliterate.

The fires spread out from Korinth in waves,
And all the metal started then to sag,
He turned the metal mountains into graves,
As all the world left its remains as slag.

The screams of dead and dying filled the skies,
Just as the smoke came wafting from the ground,
Now, one by one, each soul from that world dies,
Their dirge a high and horrid hissing sound.

And now that pyromancer walks the planes,
His baneful fire hotter than a sun,
And all that’s metal now must fear of Dane’s
Obliterating wrath; he’ll smelt each one.

Angel

With skin so fair and golden hair,
The angels soar on high.
A halo rings, like crowns on kings,
Their heads up in the sky.

Their beauty gleams like golden beams
Of light from sunshine rare.
Their hearts are gripped in pious script
From each and every prayer.

But as they fly through dogma’s lie,
And all deception brings,
Then at the seams unravel dreams
Into the merest strings.

Her praise is stripped as life is ripped
From those who fortune deems
By luck awry the next to die,
And cross infernal streams.

But now she sings with blackened wings,
Which once they thought were clipped,
And she will dare to take to air,
This angel of the crypt.

Angel

With skin so fair and golden hair,
The angels soar on high.
A halo rings, like crowns on kings,
Their heads up in the sky.

Their beauty gleams like golden beams
Of light from sunshine rare.
Their hearts are gripped in pious script
From each and every prayer.

But as they fly through dogma’s lie,
And all deception brings,
Then at the seams unravel dreams
Into the merest strings.

Her praise is stripped as life is ripped
From those who fortune deems
By luck awry the next to die,
And cross infernal streams.

But now she sings with blackened wings,
Which once they thought were clipped,
And she will dare to take to air,
This angel of the crypt.

Arena of the Ancients

On the bloody field of battle, there are countless soldiers who
Will charge into the chaos and will only make it through
If the tides of fortune favor them and all that they have been,
For the common soldier will not change a loss into a win.

But at times a greater presence comes to change the ebbing tide,
And stands with lasting majesty, and never erring pride,
Their power and ability will open all the doors,
And these legends, by their very nature, change the course of wars.

And when these legends meet in conflict on the battlefield,
They fight until the death because they know that none will yield,
The soldiers that surround them can but stare in quiet awe,
As they fight with sword or magic or the summoned tooth and claw.

Yet these fearless, mighty fighters are compelled by something more
Than the glories that are won upon the canvases of war,
They’re striving to compete against the others of their kind,
And they’re searching for whatever venue all of them can find.

The Arena of the Ancients is precisely such a stage,
And it calls to all the heroes who have surfaced in this age,
For even in the heat of battle, it will call their names,
And compel them to the trials through their lust for prideful games.

How many ancient warriors have tread this hallowed dirt?
From Riven Turnbull, Ragnar, and the mighty Jacques le Vert,
Rubinia, Tobias, and vicious Gosta Dirk,
And even Marhault Elsdragon has here set to his work.

They set themselves in tournaments, or in the grand melee,
And fight until exhaustion has removed them from the fray,
And when they have recovered, they begin again, more bold,
In search of all the glories that were prophesized of old.

The Arena of the Ancients can appear from anywhere,
And can act upon the heroes like a hunter’s greatest snare,
And as the legends battle and exchange each stroke for stroke,
The war around them rages, in the hands of common folk.

Retribution

When I was but a little boy, still locked in callow youth,
And I had yet to face the world unkind,
A moment came that taught to me a harsh and worldly truth:
That Justice must be deaf as well as blind.

My father was the closest thing I ever had to home,
There was no house that we could ever claim,
And yet I always knew no matter where I’d have to roam,
My father would be with me just the same.

But then one night beneath a red and never-caring moon,
A specter of this city’s mad disgrace,
The killer came, a blade in hand, and left my father strewn,
While hidden, I could see the killer’s face.

I hurried to the magistrates to tell them of the crime,
I showed them what that horrid man had done,
But when they caught him, they told me that he would serve his time:
His seven days, for he’s a noble’s son.

My father lived upon the streets, cut down in prime of life,
By someone who was simply drunk and bored,
The last I ever saw of him was dripping from a knife;
Its wielder now a free and pompous lord.

From that day on, I knew that crimes were punished on a whim,
And Justice was for some, but never all,
I studied law and magic, but my heart was ever grim,
My anger mortared up behind a wall.

My studies carried on for years, it seemed they’d never cease,
Eventually, though, I became a mage,
And maybe now I have a way to finally gain my peace,
Through names that were not uttered for an age.

Some call these names “unspeakable” beyond the college grounds,
But nothing is unspeakable to me.
I’ll yell them from the tower roofs, all those forgotten sounds,
And issue great Nevinyrral’s decree!

When Justice turned out deaf and blind toward my father’s death,
I knew there’s nothing I’d refuse to risk.
This city made me what I am, it breathed its acrid breath
Into this final Magus of the Disk.

I Never Made the Tea

I’ve always had the kettle and a stack of bags to brew,
And I can boil water; it’s an easy thing to do.
I know the proper etiquette of when to sip or dunk,
And how to clean the tea cup when the tea has all been drunk.
Everything I’ve needed was just sitting there for me.
The leaves were always waiting, but I never made the tea.

I always had the meat and cheese, and butter to be spread.
I’ve always kept on hand supplies of sliced and packaged bread.
Inside my kitchen drawer I always keep a sharpened knife;
It is perhaps the simplest of all foods in this life.
But all of those supplies remain unused upon the shelf,
‘Cause after all, I never made the sandwiches myself.

Behind the bar, I have a line of shelves up on the wall,
And there is my collection of the bottles, short and tall.
There’s rum and scotch and whiskey, there’s tequila, beer, and wine;
It’d be hard to find selections that are more complete than mine.
But though the bottles may be there, despite what someone thinks,
I had the opportunities, but never made the drinks.

But even when the metaphors have faded all away,
When words have failed at last and there’s so little left to say,
When questions echo through my head of what I didn’t do,
And all that I have left is just a memory of you,
The thing I truly never made, my only lasting crime:
I had the minutes, hours, but I never made the time.

Grave Endeavor

A lonely figure stands, his gut in knots,
As he prepares to cast his deathly lots.
His countenance is dangerous and grim,
His eyes are cold as he begins to sever
The ties that bind morality to him,
And then prepare for this most grave endeavor.
Our fates are tossed upon the winds of chance
When Life and Death both bow to start their dance.
There’s something that belongs beneath the earth,
Beyond the gate that separates the dead
From living souls, and all their mortal worth,
But he will tie again that severed thread.
If luck is with him, he will raid that space,
To bring one back, another in its place.