A dark bard's odes

[Anume]

Born of hatred and molded of Sirant, an Avatar of hate exists in Aabahran's lore

Disruption of the Pantheon's Old, trapped between seal and cursed,

Skewered of iron, shackle, and demon within the Dark Prison of S'handor.

Within the Cult of Sirant, Lestinari began to search of where Avatar was immersed.

Century of time confined brought with it hatred and scorn,

Within aid of a Pentagram's Sorcerer, divinity was no more sought, but found.

Cracking shell, a plan of vellum and a Forger of Souls had been born.

After death and destruction of all required, the god-like plan struck down.

With acceptance of the Evil Lord, a Dark Lady soon saw Demonic Command.

Growing pleasure of mind, body, and soul that writhed in agony and pain,

With the aid of Rune Magic, she soon called and beckoned Scourge with hand.

Fear, Hatred, and Betrayal forever named her eminent domain.

Shielded by the dark of night, a ripple of the Rift consumed all that she hated,

Wrought of havoc and dismay, a feral need to grow and to self preserve.

A Demon Lord's cackle was then heard, should his revenge pass is still speculated.

Seeing her own strength multiply in grandeour, an eery statement was heard,

Never again will I serve..

Simply,

Zkrivuur

Very beautiful, thank you, had to share. ~ Anume

[Anume]

A Somber Swing

Mad with picket and fist higher than steeple

Bereaved, sullen, and filled with hate.

Crying words of, " Don't kill your own People! "

City torn asunder, Lord Xylth decides its fate.

A race once collared, chained, and battered,

It's women aching and crippled, they stumbled.

Men of a ghost's Pride scared to stand, forever scattered.

Begging for aid, they desire Xylth to be humbled.

Within the shriek of a squire no more than thirteen,

A warrior dashes across the lands of Aabahran.

Gallant and striving, his lance glistens with a holy sheen.

Fighting for those that can't, he extends a hand.

The tale of Arthryn and Xylth will echo for the ages.

Filling the planes with blood and pain.

The might of the holy devout festers and rages.

The politician mind focuses and refuses to strain.

Commencing with the night has begun with a hanging,

The Churches of Val Miran begin to ding and ring.

The fight wages on as a guard's gallows end with banging.

Message revererated as it creaks with somber swing.

Simply,

Zkrivuur