Petaluma the Chicken travelled to-and-fro.
This current adventure led him through the cold snow.
He trekked to Ardoris to see a famous painter,
But Petaluma was clueless and unaware of any danger.
He pecked at a speck– maybe it was food?
It was only a pebble he had to conclude.
At the top of a pass, he crossed a long bridge,
But a troll loped in view on the opposite ridge!
He spun to flee, but another appeared,
Blocking his return while scratching his rear.
Two trolls on the span? A cockerel’s nightmare!
(It’s possible in his fear an egg was laid there.)
He was spotted right then when one troll turned his shoulder,
And nearly was flattened by a giant flying boulder.
“CHICKEN!” yelled the troll, stomping closer from one side,
“CHICKEN!” repeated the other, mouth drooling, wide-eyed.
Petaluma had no place to go for escape.
He feared he would become a feathered pancake.
He closed his eyes tight, preparing for the worst,
Peeking out from one lid when he heard the trolls curse.
They were arguing about who had spotted the bird.
His first two steps were slow, but he ran by the third.
They yelled at each other to see who would eat,
Not realizing that with no fowl was no meat.
They wrestled behind as he plodded away.
It’s possible that they still wrestle this day.
But Petaluma doesn’t know. He hightailed it out.
Toward Ardoris he went and continued his route.
Though no one else knew of his bridge troll evading,
His courage was recorded on a nice oil painting.
“Dancer? What are you doing in my home?” Nick yelled as he burst through the door.
“Nick, you’re alive? Cianna said you were dead. She wanted to burn this place down, but I begged her to keep it. She said I could have it. I live here now.”
With smoldering intensity, he gazed into Dancer’s eyes. “You are all grown up now,” he said in a gruff voice, looking at her silky hair and dove-like eyes. He searched her face. Dancer’s heart quickened as her eyes fell closed and her lips pouted under his gaze. She felt a breeze as Nick suddenly whisked her off her feet. But the kiss she expected never came. She opened one eye and found herself flying out the door. She shrieked and tried to balance herself with cat-like grace before landing on all fours.
The door slammed and a shout echoed from the windows of the cabin.
wees comin’ trough dem darkness places,
diggin’ an’ trudgin’ along.
wees haz to leab our fav’rite spaces,
wees singin’ da mournin’ song.
(byes Ozog Giantfart…sigh)
but goblinz be much stronger an’ tuff.
gibin’ up wees neber do!
da heart ob pitmuck laufs when itz ruff,
wees now in da werld wif yoo!
(wees has a new cabe!)
wees got da fishes and nice pee stumps!
our skin bees nice an’ greenie!
wees not dem goblinz wif ogly bumps,
wees neber be a meanie.
(septin’ miehette – she’s not likins “stupis” humies…shhhh)
so if yoo sees goblinz in Soltowns,
come join us wees bee sayins.
dance an’ lauf away dem frowns,
good fun wees bee relayins’.
(goblinz fun bees da bestest fun.)
In silence sweet,
we tread our feet,
in sands on shores of time.
Seeing past the rhythmic beat,
and truly touching those we meet,
is why our only weapon is our rhyme.
But as it’s said, (or so I’ve read,)
words are dozens by the dime.
I’ll stand with you, tho, you’re just a remnant;
The crumbling remains of a memory I live in.
Once towering proud ‘bove the city of Vengeance,
with vigilance,
now laid low in repentance.
I know not what use may have held here within you,
But now, you’re my home.
That I’ve found on my own
And ghosts of battles once faught, discontinued
Are remnants in blue,
An otherworldly hue,
That illuminate memories unbelonging to you.
The memory is mine that intermingles with yours,
One of a world far beyond Novian shores.
And we will gaze ‘pon the stars, to know what we can,
The Idle tree stood alone
A mighty tower of cold brown stone.
From this solitude I have strayed
to cast my great unending gaze.
I’ve come un-hidden to ensure
a needle, some bark, flung from this fir.
I loathe the killers of the plants
who slash and burn with wicked chants.
A misanthrope I may be
a dreamer of when plants are free.
In spell weaving I shall make
a morbid plan for all plant’s sakes.
A repellent of some such
a tutelage ooze warm to the touch.
A curse to those who dare to strike.
They shall pay the ultimate price.
And in the end I shall flee
fluttering in my insanity.
The noise rouses me from my slumber. I open my eyes briefly, spying the shafts of light from the shattered moon cascading in through my window. Still too early… I drift off again, my mind’s eye wandering.
drip
droop
drip.
I roll over, covering my head with my pillow, drowning out the nagging drips.
Ahhhh…. better.
Silence.
I smile to myself, thinking about the barmaid who bought me a drink tonight. I hope she’s there next time.
Sleep comes again, slowly pulling me, spiralling…. welco–
Drip.
My eyes snap open, seemingly of their own accord. That infernal well! Every night, every single night, I can hear it. More times than I can count, I’ve asked him to fix the drip, but he just rolls his eyes. And laughs to himself. Even now, as I lay here in the dark, I can hear his whispers. His condescension. His denials.
I rub my face, exhausted, and taste copper. Looking down at my hand, I can see the red lines in my palm, glinting in the moonlight. At least, I assume they’re red. It’s hard to tell, the moon is so bright, almost blinding. I have to shield my eyes as I walk across the grass.
Vaguely, I realize I’m outside. But why wouldn’t I be?
Drip.
I turn quickly and see it, the darkness bubbling up inside me. The well just stands there in the grass, mocking me, as if its leaky bucket and coarse rope somehow make it better. The rope feels… strong. I like the way it feels when the fibers push into my palm. It makes me feel… alive.
I’m testing it now, judging it. Daring it to be as strong as it thinks it is. Looking closely, I can see the fibers forcing their way into his flesh. The supple and tender neck veins bulge excitedly as I push downward. Its fascinating, really, watching the skin expand and contract with the pulse. Slower, slower… just like falling asleep. So peaceful.
Back outside, I consider the leaky bucket, now lying harmlessly on the grass. Despite myself, I am impressed. I kneel down, gently placing the rope inside the bucket. You were right, I think. You ARE better.
I sigh in relaxation, pulling the covers up to my chin. I cannot help but smile as I think about the bucket and the rope, and how well they did. I feel proud. And I am tired… so tired.
I can feel sleep coming at last. Still smiling, I begin to fall…
The noise rouses me from my slumber. I open my eyes briefly, spying the shafts of light from the shattered moon cascading in through my window. Still too early… I drift off again, my mind’s eye wandering.
drip
droop
drip.
I roll over, covering my head with my pillow, drowning out the nagging drips.
Ahhhh…. better.
Silence.
I smile to myself, thinking about the barmaid who bought me a drink tonight. I hope she’s there next time.
Sleep comes again, slowly pulling me, spiralling…. welco–
Drip.
My eyes snap open, seemingly of their own accord. That infernal well! Every night, every single night, I can hear it. More times than I can count, I’ve asked him to fix the drip, but he just rolls his eyes. And laughs to himself. Even now, as I lay here in the dark, I can hear his whispers. His condescension. His denials.
I rub my face, exhausted, and taste copper. Looking down at my hand, I can see the red lines in my palm, glinting in the moonlight. At least, I assume they’re red. It’s hard to tell, the moon is so bright, almost blinding. I have to shield my eyes as I walk across the grass.
Vaguely, I realize I’m outside. But why wouldn’t I be?
Drip.
I turn quickly and see it, the darkness bubbling up inside me. The well just stands there in the grass, mocking me, as if its leaky bucket and coarse rope somehow make it better. The rope feels… strong. I like the way it feels when the fibers push into my palm. It makes me feel… alive.
I’m testing it now, judging it. Daring it to be as strong as it thinks it is. Looking closely, I can see the fibers forcing their way into his flesh. The supple and tender neck veins bulge excitedly as I push downward. Its fascinating, really, watching the skin expand and contract with the pulse. Slower, slower… just like falling asleep. So peaceful.
Back outside, I consider the leaky bucket, now lying harmlessly on the grass. Despite myself, I am impressed. I kneel down, gently placing the rope inside the bucket. You were right, I think. You ARE better.
I sigh in relaxation, pulling the covers up to my chin. I cannot help but smile as I think about the bucket and the rope, and how well they did. I feel proud. And I am tired… so tired.
I can feel sleep coming at last. Still smiling, I begin to fall…
One of elven blood, one scoundrel with no luck,
A Bard living with Honor, a rogue haunted by Sacrifice.
Where two misfits meet, heated sparks fly,
When the dust settled, their tenacity skied.
They fought the Lich at Ravensmoor,
Piled the corpse in Crags and more.
Cleared the Reapers in Greymark forest,
Finally exhausted in the depths of hilt Fortress.
By a cruel twist of fate they met,
Through it a friendship a bond begat.
Who knows what their future may bring,
From a nested forest their legend begin…..
