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Post by hundredwords on Mar 18, 2006 11:56:11 GMT -5
THE TWO PRINCESSES EPIC POEMS
Out of a land laid waste To a land untamed, Monster ridden, The lad Drualt led A ruined, ragtag band. In his arms, tenderly, He carried Bruce, The child king, First ruler of Bamarre.
Step follows step. Hope follows courage. Set your face toward danger. Set your heart on victory.
First tells the human’s side of the tale.
Fiery breath, Snapping teeth, volcanic spittle; Soft underbelly Ringed by living spiked, Poison tipped, Patient and relentless As the desert sand, Dealing hot death In bitter morsels- The dragon Yune.
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Post by hundredwords on Mar 18, 2006 11:56:29 GMT -5
Now the poem speaks of Drualt.
No scales, no whipping tale, Only a shining face, Beacon in battle. Only a man, the laugher, The warrior Drualt.
Back to the dragon.
Yune’s hoard— Knights’ bones, Gnawed white; Maidens’ bones, Charred black; Ruby brooch; Tiara of diamonds; My lady’s golden slipper— Yune’s hoard, Tall as a tower.
Drualt once again.
Drualt’s army— Defiance, Drualt’s steed. Gore-gouger, Drualt’s dagger; Blood-biter, Drualt’s sword; Drualt’s own sturdy legs, Mainstay and Helpmeet; Drualt’s own mighty arms, Defender and Thruster. Drualt’s army, Sinew and steel.
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Post by hundredwords on Mar 18, 2006 11:56:47 GMT -5
To the dragon and Drualt’s first encounter.
Yune exhaled a cloud, Of vapors hot and thick, Bitter as bile. The cloud engulfed Drualt’s army. Within the cloud, Defiance stumbled, Choking. Hooves beat the smoke. Drualt, the laugher, Heard Yune’s laugh. He raised Blood-biter, and, Glowing white, the sword carved A tunnel, a sun shaft To pure air And, unseen, To Yune.
Drualt dived into her hoard fire licking his heals.
Within the moldering, Noxious hoard, Drualt living hand Found the sword Of long-dead hero Arkule. Yune’s claws Raked her festering pile And almost plucked out Drualt’s Keen right eye. A claw found instead Drualt’s scorched shoulder. The dragon shrieked her triumph: ‘Your mine now. Mine! Mine to burn, mine to crisp, Mine to kill.’ She lifted Drualt. And on that upward journey To his doom, Drualt thrust Gore-gouger Into Yune’s soft flesh And plunged Arkule’s long And ancient sword Into Yune’s stony heart.
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Post by hundredwords on Mar 18, 2006 11:57:06 GMT -5
Now a few adventures of Drualt
.Drualt the laugher, Laughed at the sun, On his shield, The moon in his silver sword, The drum in his heart. Laughed at his someday death Glimpsed from afar. Drualt, the laugher, Laughed at death.
Now he is taken to prison
The dungeon walls were stone, Hard as an ogre’s head. Its floor was dirt, Soft as milady’s powder. Drualt burrowed, His belt buckle for a shovel, Singing all the while, ‘Dig or die, dig or die. Lucky am I to own A plucky silver buckle.’ Drualt the laugher Laughed and sang, ‘Lucky plucky buckle, Plucky lucky buckle.’ And laughing more, ‘Buckle plucky lucky.’ Laughing loud, he sang Till his tongue Turned topsy-turvy And he could sing no more For his laughing.
Once out of the dungeon
King Bruce, armour shining, Led the right flank, shouting, ‘Hide, monsters, hide From our might.’ Drualt, armour bloody, Led the left flank, shouting ‘Come, monsters, come And meet our might.’ King Bruce frowned, His mouth set grim, and A dread light was in His eyes. His soldiers too Were grim, and battled As a farmer plows A stony field, with a will, But no delight Drualt laughed, and A glad light was in His eyes. His soldiers Laughed too, and fought As a lad or maid begins a dance, With a will and much delight. Bruce and his warriors sang out. Drualt and his warriors Rang out. ‘Now carve, my sword. Now bite, my arrows. Now die, my enemy. Victory for Bamarre!
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Post by hundredwords on Mar 18, 2006 11:57:25 GMT -5
Drualt goes hunting and Freya sets off to fish in the Surmic River. When the hero returns, he hears Freya crying for help. He gallops to the river, where he finds her harried by a dozen gryphons and not a single villager has come to her defense.
Two gryphons lay dead, Entrails spilling On the riverbank Two gryphons staggered And reeled, wings savaged. Drualt laughed. His sweetheart Was a doughty warrior. Eight gryphons still Set upon Freya, feasting On her living flesh. Freya down upon Her dimpled knees, Fought on, but Her life’s blood poured Into the rolling river. Drualt’s laughter died, and Nevermore did Drualt laugh Or smile in Bamarre. Though gryphons bit and clawed And set upon him, too, Drualt reached his sweetheart And knelt and tried To stanch the rush Of her heart’s red blood. Drualt took Freya’s warm hand, Her strong hand, Her sword hand, And pressed it to his lips, Pressed it to his heart. ‘Come with me.’ He said “Come with me to battle, My love. Tarry at my side. Stay with me When battle is done. Tarry at my side. Laugh with me, And walk with me The long, long way. Tarry with me, My love, at my side.’ A monster pecked At Freya’s dead lips. Drualt arose in fury and Slew it with one sweep Of his angry sword.
Drualt killed the remaining gryphons quickly. When they lay dead, the gates of Surmic village opened, and the villagers stepped out timidly. Drualt shook his fist at them.
‘Come you now?’ roared the hero. ‘Come you now, when all need Is past? Come you know, When my love is dead?’ Frightened, the villagers Drew back and whispered Among themselves, their voices Dry as salt.
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Post by hundredwords on Mar 18, 2006 11:57:44 GMT -5
Drualt lifted Freya and turned to from the villagers. He began to walk away, bleeding from his many wounds. An old woman hurried and caught up with him. She asked if he would return to aid in the times of need.
Drualt told the old crone, ‘Bamarre will see no more of me Until the timid Go forth with the strong. But while her heroes Still fight alone, Bamarre will see no more of me.’ Drualt went then Into the mountains, Carrying Freya, Bold spirit, lost love. And he was no more Seen in Bamarre.
Now when the specter haunts, Or the dragon flames, Or ogre attacks, Or gryphons descends, Bamarre fights alone. Drualt, the laugher, Tall among men, Is gone.
But the tale has not Run out—not yet. So be brave, Bamarre, Go forth, Bamarre, The timid with the strong. Let not your heroes Fight alone. Then one day, In the spring of the year When monsters are hunting, A hero will come, A laugher, Tall among men. Drualt, hero of Bamarre, Will return. So rise up, Bamarre! Be brave, Bamarre! Be worthy, Bamarre, Of your hero’s return.
Step follows step. Hope follows courage. Set your face toward danger. Set your heart on victory.
Now for the dragon’s side of the tale.
Swift-flying Hothi, Slain by Drualt. And Zira, flame Of fury, young beauty, He slew her also. Men call him The Laugher, the Hero. Drualt, stifling fire, Snuffing life, No hero to dragons.
Yune, the Sly One, The Enduring, Yearned to set Drualt’s Sea-green eyes Atop her treasure hoard. So she found him And bore him Over the peaks, Across the plains To her sweet lair. Eagerly She carried death To her home.
She made a single mistake in her battle with Drualt, but she made it again and again. Many times she could have killed him, but she wanted him to die gradually, as Hothi and Zira had. So she only wounded him, scorched his scalp, melted the armour on his chest. He gave her no such quarter. He struck, when he could, with all his might, and by the time he cravenly hid in her hoard, her belly was scored in dozens of places. As soon as he desecrated her hoard, though, she wanted to finish him. But, as you know, she was loath to flame at her treasures.
Yune burned hot and bright As the first forge That made her. She Would have consumed Man’s hero then, reduced him To a speck of soot, A splinter of bone, But for his treachery. From her dear hoard He raised against her Her own sword taken fairly (An age ago) from Arkule’s dead fingers. Drualt thrust the stolen blade Through Yune’s ancient And loyal heart.
Yune’s fire doused, Her life fell away. Yet still she held A bequest, a death gift For her enemies. From her belly, Roiling with noxious smoke, She belched forth Contagion, a gray death.
And with a long labored breath, Yune blew her legacy To the halls of men. She sang in a thin thread Of voice, ‘Some will be spared, Some will be chosen. The chosen Will die, the spared Will live and mourn, Heartsick, their lost loves.’ Then her voice guttered out, And she succumbed, Dying avenged, dying glad. Yune, the Sly One, The Enduring, flamed no more.
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Post by hundredwords on Mar 18, 2006 11:57:59 GMT -5
The closing of the epic poem Two Princesses.
The sisters embraced And they parted, Their faces tear-washed. But they wept no more, And smiled instead, laughed At what would come, Whatever would come, though Hoping, hoping, someday To embrace again.
Now, when specter haunts, Or dragon flames, Or ogre attacks, Or gryphons descends, Bamarre fights on, And the timid march With the strong. The tailor, the cook, The farmer, the queen— From village, from field, From castle, from wood— Bamarre, land of heroes, Fight on.
Step follows step. Hope follows courage. Set your face toward danger. Set your heart on victory— Victory for Bamarre!
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