Work in Progress: The Squire

At first, I was going to try to cobble together another brief dribbling of words for this week because, again, I have not finished my entry for this week. Then a few more sensible friends suggested I post what I have written, as is, as a work-in-progress. And so, this post. I will likely finish the work for next week, so those who wish not to be spoiled or have their impressions colored by an early draft may wish to skip this week's post.

The Squire

I need a light. This heat has stirred my brain

And breeds from tangled silks unquiet dreams.

The wind's in the weeds. What fool would brave this night

Where stars in fistful cross a beaten sky?

What fools, it gives me jitters now to think,

Would wrap themselves in cloak-and-dagger winds

And, lamps a-flicker, stab through darkness' realm

To carve a little sovereign for their light?

And would you join me on the balcony,

Perched low, no doubt, beneath your father's gaze,

And send up smoke to kiss his royal schnoz,

Or stay behind your curtains, soft and safe?

Your loss. This leaf is rich and sweet as sin,

A cutting from Sir Eldon's private patch.

And if my master's worth a goddamn thing,

At least he showed me how to stuff a pipe.

What did your father teach you, love: your wiles?

To charm a man or girl with treacly words

And velvets, till your last decree be done,

And send the sulking suitors to the street?

Oh, hush now, princess, I'm just making light.

It's not as if you hold much love for him,

And even less the bloody man's campaigns,

Else why invite my armor by your bed?

Besides, how little help that I can give,

A pissant girl indentured to a knight

Who welcomed me with rough, inviting arms

And sent me dummy spars to keep me dumb.

I had to pick my fights with younger boys,

All blue-blood brats, so I could raise a sword.

Those thicks, of course, were picked to fumble flags

When King and Company went off to war.

I really can't complain, though, can I, dear,

For loveliness that I should oversee.

And all in all, it seems a marvelous trade:

That while they fumble cloths, I fumble lace...

When It's Late, I'm Rather Mopey and Altogether Unpleasant to Be Around

The Serpent of Deluna Bay

'Twas Jessie Jones, our Iron Lass,

Who spied it in her looking glass,

And cried for all the deck to hear,

"The monster, men, it's here, it's here!"

And lo! betwixt the yawning wakes

Arose a creature that would shake

The hardest crew to ocean spray:

The Serpent of Deluna Bay.

Its eyes are slits the size of masts,

Its scales as if of iron cast,

Its fangs the end of every boat

That slides into its acid throat.

"Don't let it fly," our captain barked,

"And we shall have its hide by dark.

We'll cut its scales for evening dress,

And from its flesh, we'll lamp oil press."

The first mate

"Quick, boys, the sails,"

***

And here the story would go on

Into a fascinating yarn

About how our fine crew would slay

The Serpent of Deluna Bay,

How on the fearless captain drives

His ship and risks his sailors' lives

For some quite dearly treasured snake

That slumbered in these turgid wakes,

How in the final battle scene,

The ship caught beast and storm between,

Young Iron Jess would make the blow

That'd bring this wondrous creature low,

How on and on the crew would cheer,

Except for Jess, who'd shed a tear

For monsters grand felled by her hand,

How our dear cap'n would understand,

How on the solemn journey back,

He'd tell her of the moistened smacks

Of bodies that once lay on deck,

And so, drop into angsty dreck,

And how a moment they would share,

A strong, but wounded, seaward pair,

A lovely image you can bet

Would drift into a warm sunset.

But other things I'd rather do,

And I am obligated to

Make good upon a promise made,

A year before, that cannot fade.

There was quite a bit of whiny verse after this, but I decided it would be better to edit it all out. See you Friday.

The Epic Saga of Haekreaild

This Friday's entry is a stop-gap of sorts, something sort and simple and light-hearted, inspired by the Lytton-Bulwer Fiction Contest, but given an ending. The stop-gap part? Well...expect some "supplemental material" to appear on the blog within the next day or two.

The Epic Saga of Haekreaild: Being a Translation of the Great Bardic Cycle Only Recently Recovered From Certain Ruins in Northern Iceland, Itself a Translation from the Elvish: Volume One

After spending many days along the half-forgotten spine of the world completing his final rite-of-passage in order to attain manhood, having been bruised and battered by all manner of crags and thorns and beasts too terrible to name, Haekreaild decided to leave his peasant village and widowed mother and go on a quest to save the world from the iron grip of King Maliorious and the coming blight of a supernatural winter longer and colder than any other since the Winter of a Thousand Nights, for a prophecy foretold that a child would be born on the exact day and in the exact place where Haekreaild was born and that after the child had seen seventeen winters pass, he would be called to unite all the nations, learn the secret arts of the elves from far beyond the reach and ken of man, draw the Sword of Throatenguarde from the old tombs of Bael Kai where it lay hidden for ages beyond ages, break the false idols in the Temple of Solitude and expose the church as nothing but a tissue of lies and corruption, and, at last, die in the final battle for the fate of the earth; and so, Haekreaild left the village carrying nothing but meager morsels of bread, his father's trusted sword, which had been handed down his family line since the Age of Myths and kept hidden by his mother in a secret chink carved into the floor for this very purpose after his father died, and his will to save his home and the family he has loved so dear.

Rocks fall. Everyone dies.

Blog, with Occasional Music

A recording of my song "Fly Until Starlight." Should be considered more a demo than a master track because 1). My voice isn't that great to begin with, and 2). I nearly had to shout because earlier, softer attempts sounded very weak. Regardless, enjoy the song, and thank you Lijik and RoahmMythril for your contributions.

http://www.mediafire.com/?mdj3mitznwn

Fly Until Starlight

The following poem is a set of lyrics concerning skypirates and is based on an original concept by Kyle Backstrom. My apologies for any mishandling of the idea.

Fly Until Starlight.

Come with me and we'll ride to the ends of the Earth,

Where we've gold and a cold swell a-breaking.

Come with me and we'll scour the badlands below,

Where there's wonder that's ours for the taking.

Come with me, leave your troubles behind,

And we'll cut through the storms if our blades are aligned,

So trust to the skies and a grin.

'Cause with wind in our turbines,

We'll fly till the starlight shines in.

Damn the Blues in their silly pontoons. They'll be bound

For the ground if Old Davy'll take 'em.

Damn these liars who think they're hot fliers.

Their livers all quiver--a sparrow would shake 'em.

Damn your pride, damn your fears and your doubts.

It's a big bad damn world, but there's riches about,

So ready your pistols and gin.

'Cause with wind in our turbines,

We'll fly till the starlight shines in.

And we'll glide o'er the dark in our airship,

Chasing after the dawn.

Just a cold kiss of blue and the wasteland.

It's a ride, and we'll ride till it's gone.

Feel the chinking of rivets on rivets

As gears dance with gears by the turn of our measure.

Feel the pull of the rollicking thermals that twine

Down to Earth and a promise of treasure.

Feel the warmth of a soft summer sun

And the fresh, tender sting of a dream just begun,

So trust to your heart and you're in.

'Cause with wind in our turbines

And cheers off the port-side,

We'll fly till the starlight shines in.