View source for The Saga of Old Hakhim

By: Nequeo
Posted on: May 25, 2004


I.


Hear ye! Hear ye! Novice ratters,

Drop your swords and leather tatters,

Sit before this Bardic Mage,

Revel in stories of an age


When Shallam, the Eastern Jewel,

of Light, and Grace, and Daring Do,

Was absent of that Institution,

Crazy Hakhim, the common solution


To money woes. We owe him honour,

And yet, so sad, so few will bother

To take a moment to stop and listen

And learn from whence this proud Tradition


Has its roots.

This won't take long,

And Hakhim will be here,

Long after you're gone.


II.


It once was morning in Old Jaru,

In days of Yore, and journeying through

This nascent town, was a travelling band

Of fighting Monks of the Crystal Hand.


So strange a group a group had never been...

They slipped through shadows, sight unseen,

Beneath their banner, a bleeding star,

For these dark, cruel men worshipped Kx'khrah.


A jagged race, subverted to evil,

Their crystalline forms were harder then steel,

But possessed of a grace, a strength and a power

Desired by men of the Crystal Tower.


So was it called,

The home of these monks.

The place where they trained,

For months and for months...


III.


The goal of these men, you shiver in terror,

Was, put most simply, to correct the error

That Maya had made, when her children abandoned

Had been raised all alone, lost, cold and saddened.


And though it may seem a poignant theme,

You must understand that these monks had been

Trained and practiced in skills of telepathy

And sought to connect the brain of humanity


To the Kx'krah, in a plane far away,

And join all of Man in a glorious day

To a much greater whole than the sum of its parts,

Using their fighting monk martial arts.


Then at last well prepared,

They set out at a rush

To march on Shallam

And destroy it at once.


IV.


O' Shallam! O' Shallam! Jewel of the East,

Bastion of Good, Most Righteous Feast

Of the Soul, heed our Call, hear our plea...

For Black Monks march in

And murder our Kin.


V.


So heard the Sultan, a plea from Jaru,

For the Monks had arrived, but unable to do

What they set out to achieve, on account of the might

Of the Paladin Guards, had decided in dread

To conquer a town or a village instead.


VI.


The Sultan grew wrath,

And he turned and he called

Out for others he knew

Would be also appalled.


And appearing at once

In the blink of an eye

Was the venerable leader

Of the mighty Magi.


"What is the matter?"

Asked the oldest Archmage.

"Black monks are upon us,

"Please stop this outrage!"


Said the Sultan,

His face going red,

"I want you to bring me

"Their ugly, black heads!"


"Sire, calm you down,"

Said the Magi serene,

"Goodness requires a

Less bloody scene,


But do not fear, do not fret,

Do not doubt, do not shout,

For I have a great plan

To toss those monks out!"


And the Magi was gone,

Just like that, gone to stop

The Crystal Hand's dark

And nefarious plot.


VII.


A meeting was called in the Magi guild hall,

And Magi from all over heeded the call.


"We'll transform them, these monks," said the

Archmage with pride. "A simple enchantment,

It works well, I've tried."


"Into what?" asked the others, listening on.


"Into bugs!" said the Archmage, with dramatic aplomb.


"No Way!" came a cry from a friendly Horkval.

"You'll sully our race with these bug monks who smell."


"Then pigeons," said the Archmage, with a mischievous grin.


"You won't!" said an Atavian, "those birds are our kin!"


"Lizards, perhaps?" roared the Archmage, a shout.


"Uh-uh," said a Xoran, "Lizards are out."


"Well a toad," said the Archmage with a terrible stare.


"Oh no," cried a Grook, "you would not dare!"


"Then what?" screamed the Archmage, "Oh prey tell me that?"


"Let's see," thought the council, "What's wrong with a rat?"


VIII.

Thus was it written, thus was it said,

No monk toads, bugs, birds, no! But black rats instead.

An enchantment devised, that with magical zeal

Would provide those dark fiends with a furry appeal.


And yet one more problem, quite pressing, remained,

Which hand would deliver? Who could be framed?

"A novice, perhaps," was the most popular thought.

"But not our guild, not ours..." So a Warlock was brought.


Of Shallamese birth, Young Hakhim was quite bright,

But his Warlock ideals led him to pick fights

With his city and Sultan. He'd fled to Ashtan

But a quick sonic portal would summon the man.


"Welcome home Young Hakhim," the Sultan declared,

"If power you fancy, we've something prepared.

A magical chalice, and all you must do

Is guard it from those nasty black monks at Jaru."


"But 'ware, do not drink it!" the Archmage did warn,

"The Elixir Eternal is not to be borne

By such as yourself. So guard, do not sip.

An immortal life is a long, one-way trip."


IX.


Hakhim, daft but cunning, took the magical chalice

And spoke thankful words while he smiled with malice

Hidden deeply inside, for he knew that power

Would soon be his, then that Sultan would cower.


For the Warlocks had taught that if power was sought

Best seek, then, with others lest the quest come to nought.

"I'll share this prized brew," he chuckled and grinned,

"With those Crystal Hand monks, and the games will begin."


For the Monks, Hakhim knew, as tales did spread,

Wished to raze Shallam, but took Jaru instead.

"With this chalice I guard they might gain the strength

"If I brought it to them and extended the length

"Of their lives.

X.

Unaware that he did

The wise Archmage's bidding,

Young Hakhim the Warlock

Took the chalice and sneaking away

Left the guildhall that night,

And made it to Jaru with nary a fight.


XI.


"Ho now Monks!" cried Hakhim

As he brandished his prize,

"I have something on which

"You may wish to set eyes.


"An Elixir Eternal, stole

"From the Palace, you'll

"Find bubbling here in

"This silver chalice."


"Most likely a trap!"

Said the Head of the Hand.

"So you'll drink it first,

"For you must understand


"We are wary of those who

"Come in the night

"Bearing mystical silver

"From the Champions of Right."


"I will, then," Hakhim, who had

Sniffed the strong brew,

Said proudly and drank,

For his training told true.


And the Monks looked on wary

As the Warlock let fall on his

Tongue just one drop.


XII.


"I never will die!" cried Hakhim,

Now immortal.


And the monks gathered round

And repeated the rite,

In the night,

And the plight

Of the Right

Was not bright


As the Monks now could

Feel in their blood...

They could feel,


They could feel,

In their veins,

A life never ending.


The Elixir Eternal.


XIII.


With victory certain the monks

Broke their vows and stole a great

Keg from a tavern nearby.


And all through the night there

Was cheer and great joy

For it seemed they would triumph

In their dastardly ploy.


But Hakhim had some thought,

An odd taste in his mouth,

And was less fond of beer

Than the former devout.


So he abstained from the Rite,

Stayed awake through the Night

And thus was the first to see

Fur growing right

On his arm.


XIV.


With a mighty great roar

Hakhim found a knife

And cut off his arm

And it just saved his life.


For the Elixir was gold

And did just what was told...

But the chalice itself

Was unwise to hold.


XV.


Hakhim now is found,

A poor, broken man

In the golden Medina

Of Glorious Shallam.


One arm, half a brain,

He is tortured and cursed,

The Eternal Ratman

And his Eternal Purse.
[[Category:Bardic Runners Up]][[Category:2004 Bardics]]