For Ian, Requiem
In the silence and the dark, he fell.
In the silence and the dark, he fled.
In the mist and the blood, he died.
In the warmth and the light, he rises.
The Death Lay of Hornwood
From the Hymnal of the Faith, of the Church of Heironious:
Verse One: A warrior born lays down his arms,
Comrade true, we send you there
Verse Two:
O valiant friend, we shall meet again!
And then shall we at last know peace
The Battle of Light and Shadow
Eulogy for Jhon Tsaran
Alas for the comrade lost to death!
Alas still more for the poor lad's doom
We are now compelled, by duty sworn,
By blade and faith, through battle and spell
In the name of Heironious, the judge, the bringer of justice and the arbiter of souls, I pledge myself to the task of placing John Tsaran's soul and mortal remains at rest. Let He whose will is Law set the time for my return; yet I will not abandon my oath, nor brook delay save through those offices and commandments set down by the Church that determine my duty.
by Farid al Haman
Alone, cold in the solitude of the mind.
Hunted by evil incarnate, uncaring, relentless.
Violated. Taken.
Alone, chilled with doubt and guilt.
Trapped by endless despair, unforgiven, haunted.
Abandoned. Lost.
Alone, frozen between loyalty and life.
Bound by misplaced duty, unprotected, repentant.
Betrayed. Slain
Embraced, heart thawed by the Lady's smile.
Welcomed into the morning sun, undisturbed, forgiven.
Eternal. At peace.
by Ser Alain of Westmarch
(OOC: To the tune of the Irish lay, The Minstrel Boy to the war has gone)
(To be invoked at the death of a fallen comrade of a different faith but of good character)
In the ranks of death you shall find him.
A warrior's pride precedes him there
And his good name left behind him.
To a land where pains no more assail you.
No battles more shall press you there,
No mortal flesh shall fail you.
When we see you coming we will cheer it.
O comrade true, we shall join you then
For the flesh may die, not the spirit.
In a world as heaven hath intended:
Where all the works of war shall cease
And every battle must be ended.
(The Claiming of Jarel'Sur)
by Thomasin the Wayfarer
Selune rides high in her glittering sky,
her train of glittering tears.
The pattern waits, laid by the fates
beneath the dust of years.
Upon the ancient loom the weave
lays unfinished there.
The dye is cast, the threads at last
form the pattern fair.
One a Hunter of the wood,
his steps of stealthy tread.
With sword new-bright and elvensight
he seeks the path ahead.
Another walks the Harper's path,
the way of harp and sword,
a silver blade and song well-played
bound into one accord.
Cloaked in shadow, stealth and storm,
they set out on the way
into the tomb where Korga's doom
lay hidden from light of day.
The Gar of ancient shadowed fame
lay silent, dark, and cold.
A final berth beneath the earth
with secrets yet untold.
The wood was old with time and age,
her trials the wounds reflect.
Her sails a-tatter, the mast lay shattered,
a bridge to gain the deck.
What secrets kept with the wreck
would be brought to light?
There in the hold, the log which told
Of Korga's final flight.
Further on they moved with care,
for there an ancient shade.
The spirit woke, through visions spoke
of mysteries long laid.
A blade of blackened dragon tooth,
the edge a wicked curve,
the glaring eye, a murder dye,
dark ages it endured.
There in the dark the three had found
that which was Korga's bane.
A shard of night and shadow's might,
the Dragon's Tooth, WYRMFANG.
To the blade the Ranger lay claim,
caught by its false-cast glow,
and in its turn the Fang of the Wyrm
laid its hand to his soul.
So the tale in truth begins
as destiny is born.
Tah'vai'ryn at last, by fate held fast,
the tapestry takes form.
They set their steps upon the path,
their wills bent to the task.
They sought the Sage of ancient age
with questions her to ask.
Beneath the stars they set their camp,
beneath the whispering boughs.
No rest they found for all around
night broke with baleful howls.
Beneath the night they found their foe,
hounds of shadow, nighttime made.
Fell eyes alight with red flame bright,
less substance, they, than shade.
Wounded not by blades of iron
these hounds of evil dark.
Yet red cuts made the minstrel blade
and Wyrmfang found the mark.
When at last the heroes stood
under Selune's watching eye,
no sign remained of the hounds they'd slain
but the Harper's wounded thigh.
When morning broke upon the woods
they traveled with the sun,
and swift they flew for sure they knew,
at night the shadows run.
When at last the winding path
fell at the Weaver's door,
their hurts she healed and then revealed
what her pattern held in store.
To those whose threads would guide the weave
she showed the loom of years.
There all deeds done in threads were spun,
all hopes, faiths, loves, and fears.
There another joined the path,
his road with theirs entwined.
With them he stands, for in his hands
another thread to bind.
Kinsman to the Green Wardens,
keeper of lore lost long,
The wood will sing, new form to bring,
when Shaper calls his song.
Before the dawn had come upon
the heroes at their rest
shadows returned, the threads to burn,
again their steel to test.
With the shadow wolves there came
an agent of the foe.
Lord of the pack, a shadow black,
Seeds of death to sow.
From the weaver's place they flew
with shadows at their backs.
Through the night they took to flight
the wolves upon their tracks.
On across Ashaba's flow
the heroes led the chase
The wolves still followed, howling, hollow,
Wyrmfang the prize of the race.
Upon the river's farther shore,
The Packmaster offered trade.
The Bard would fall to the Shadow's call,
If they denied him the blade.
Deeper into dark embrace
they watched the Harper's fall.
By Woodsinger's bond the place beyond
drew them with its call.
Into the nest of darkling eyes,
a gossamer web most fell,
A place of light besieged by night,
wherein fell creatures dwell.
The spiders there, heroes to snare
with webs of tangling silk.
Then once bound the heroes found
creature-men of spiders' ilk.
With blades they struck the twisted things
and cut the webs they wove,
and smote them back with fierce attack
within the Tattered Grove.
That task then passed they came at last,
the House of Ancient Years.
The daughters there all fae and fair,
eyes raining bitter tears.
To cure the Harper's wounded soul
a task they would require.
One sister gone before the dawn
would fall to fate most dire.
The ageless heart of the forest green
its soul would evil claim,
and in its turn the wood would burn
in Tainted Ones' Black Flame.
The heroes found these K'ka'tess,
their hearts and forms of shadow.
Sword mirror-bright and shard of night
turned them back below.
Yet when at last the battle done
the Dark chased back to naught,
The Hunter found, when turned around,
No victory more dearly bought.
The Hunter lay on forest floor
in what seemed a deadly sleep.
No darker rest, for in his breast,
The Wyrmfang blade was steeped.
The Harper's hurts the daughters healed
Then sent them on their way,
The Ranger's doom, they could not soothe,
Nor knew where his solace lay.
Among the wagons of the Searching Folk,
amid the circle of their song,
with hearts alight they danced the night,
chasing sorrow to the dawn
In song the Hunter finds no rest.
He dreams of evil dire.
In sleep he walks by darkness stalked
and lured into the fire.
Before them rose a spire of stone.
Watchers' Reach at last!
By final breath and ageless death,
a battle long lost and past.
On spirit-haunted Watchers' Reach
stood the heroes in defiance.
Their fate repealed, the spirits sealed
a deathless-bound alliance.
To share with spirits waiting there,
their oath through ages kept,
light emerald flame and end the game
to fill an ancient debt.
With the endless battle done
the moon shone down the way.
To the mere at last he heroes passed
on the breaking of the day.
To seek the Mythal-shrouded isle
where knowledge long lay hidden.
To walk the road the light fortold
and find the place forbidden.
To answer questions dearly sought
in the sanctuary fallen,
across the mere through dreams of fear
to the house of El'Al'Hallen.
There they heard in full the tale
of a threefold alliance made
against the dire Dragonfire
and the forging of the blade
In days long past the relic made,
on souls its evil gorged.
An ancient blade upon which laid
magic made in Ba'alfire forge.
Bound into the Wyrmfang blade
an ancient Evil foul,
and how the beast, though unreleased,
now sought the Ranger's soul.
They found at dawn the mere was gone,
but the knowledge theirs to keep.
Then wings gold-bright, by Dragonflight,
Bore them to the high-raised keep.
Passing into younger lands,
kingdom born in recent past,
a power to find and then unbind
the Ranger from the Beast.
Within the walls and gates of stone
the heroes sought their rest.
By Sah'Mystra spell and warning bell
there would be one last test.
An army fell had gathered there.
Sword beat upon the shield.
The Shadow's voice then called a choice
to those within to yield.
Upon the battlements of stone
stood men set to resist
and stand and fight against the night
and withstand the Shadow's fist.
Then to the defenders' fear,
a fell blow struck for ill,
dark portals bloom, fell gates of doom
rent by Shadow's will.
By Sah'Mystra spell would the ranger's soul
be from the blade unbound.
In dreaming fight, 'gainst Dragon-wight,
His freedom then was found.
By last guardian's shining gift,
a phial of water from the mere,
the Harper passed to face at last
The Shadow cloaked in fear.
Again the Ranger woke the fire,
a blazing, emerald call to war,
The spirits grim called once again
from ancient Cormanthor.
The Shadow and the Harper,
darkling axe and sword star-bright,
the duel begun and when 'twas done
the Shadow fell to light.
The shades of guardsmen passed beyond
the veil of mortal sight
returned again the day to win
and cast the Darkness back to night.
The Battle then was fought and won
Now a new tale undertaken
to send Wyrmfang into the flame,
Shadow evermore forsaken...
by Ser Alain of Westmarch
His eyes now closed to the light of day.
The grave and fate have robbed him of breath;
His body lost to the mould'ring clay.
In death he fell to the darkest shade
Not for his soul waits the peaceful tomb
From his life's blood was a horror made.
To honor and keep his soul's request.
His fate we shall grieve, his passing mourn
His corpse we force to eternal rest
The curse of undeath shall riven be.
From deathless grasp of undying hell
Our comrade's soul shall again be free.