Truth

By: Sancero Posted on: November 30, 2009

The following is dictated by a Bard commissioned by the Suffering God to extol the virtues of Evil.

-Truth-

I.

We trek o'er mountains and through crimson mist.

Fell beasts and plants we brave to reach this land.

Through all these trials my ward and I persist.

We journey so that we might understand.

The wicked Muse of Mhaldor now awaits

To teach Her Seven Truths to those who seek.

Our patron greets us sternly at the gates

And leads us to Her dungeon far beneath.

II.

My arms and legs tied tightly to the rack-

My eyes, now empty sockets, see no more-

The whip's bright inspiration on my back-

The steady drip of blood upon the floor.

A weaker man than I would soon succumb

To tortures such as these I have endured.

And though my body screams, my mind is numb.

Advancement is through cruelty ensured.

III.

In silence we are left to our own thoughts.

Our memories of home and family-

The love we knew, the warmth, was all for naught.

Forsaken for our Muse of misery.

I crush these dreams with force of mind and will,

Expel them from my soul for once and all.

I feel the weakness leave me, and am filled

With greater strength than any I recall.

IV.

My ward, who ventured with me to this place,

Now shackled to the wall across the cell,

Cries out his pleas as tears run down his face.

No one but I remain to hear him yell:

"Forgive us, please! Release us from this pain!"

My poor disciple's weakness now lies bare.

I turn upon him all of my disdain

And sense his visage crumble in despair.

V.

My bonds are loosened now, but only just,

And soon with rusty chains they are replaced.

Into my hands a tempered sword is thrust,

A belt of iron is hung around my waist.

"Now fight!" I hear a voice call from above,

And hear my protege in fury shout.

I feel the weighty impact of his shove

And blindly with my heavy blade strike out.

VI.

Our patron now returns and hews my chains.

She bids me then to rise and wield my sword

I struggle to my feet depite the pain,

And turn to face my prone and helpless ward.

I cannot see him writhing on the floor,

But clearly can I hear his anguished cries.

With one swift stroke he's silenced evermore.

Our patron chuckles softly as he dies.

VII.

Oh sing, my wicked Muse, and tell my tale,

The hardships I endured to learn Your song.

Through all Your tortures I alone prevailed,

Among Your hallowed heroes I belong.

Sing, too, the fate of my misguided ward.

I struck him down within the prime of youth.

He was not fit to ever be Your Bard,

Nor ever shall he know the song of Truth.