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.