No Rest for the Wicked

By: Kitarel Posted on: November 13, 2009

Late one dark, moonless night

I came across a man.

He looked at me through bloodshot eyes

And told me he had ran.

I offered him a seat to have

And gave him bread and ale.

His wrists were raw from rubbing

He could pay me only with his tale.

He told me of a city great

That spanned into the skies.

An island covered in thickest fog,

Battlements and spires.

His tongue, in half, had been split

His back was stooped pain

His fingers were long and gnarled,

His mind was driven insane.

A place, he said, where evil rules

And good all shy away.

A place whose mark had been cast

On the innocent they'd slain.

The horrors spoken chilled my bones

They ripped my world apart.

He told me of men driven mad

And feasted on beating hearts.

Lords so evil and blades so bloodied

It would make any warrior weep.

A place of servitude and rage

Of honour and of creed.

'Lock up your young children,'

He whispered into my ear.

'No one is safe from Mhaldor,'

'Only evil lives here.'

At that he downed his tankard

And his mouth curled into a grin.

He tilted his head and I saw the scars,

'What is flesh but only skin?'

He offered a quick prayer to his Lords

And before I could breathe again he'd gone.

Strength comes from sacrifice

And Evil is not at rest by dawn.