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Category All / All
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File Size 3.4 MB
Listed in Folders
"TROGDOOOOOOOOR! TROGDOOOOOOR!~ Trogdor was a MAN! Ur...maybe he wad a DRAGON MAN! Or...uh...maybe he was just a DRAGON! ...Uh...but he was still TROOOOGDOOOOOOR!~ TROGDOOOOR!~ Burnitating the country-side!~ Burninating the peasants!~ Burninating all the people!~"
And lo! Upon a day most fair, when naught but peace did stir the gentle air, the maidens lay entwined in still repose, wrapped in soft embrace 'neath skies of rose. But fate, in cruel jest, did veil the sun,
A shadow vast o’ercast the golden dun.
Behold! From out the eastern gloom there flew
A dragon dread, of scale and temper blue.
With breath of rot and furnace-flame it came,
And scorched the field with wrath and seething flame.
The grasses, once as green as envy’s eye,
Were turned to ash beneath the blackened sky.
The trees stood charred, mere husks of what had been,
And flowers died, as though they’d never seen
The light of morn nor kissed the dew of spring
All beauty lost beneath the demon’s wing.
The very air did crack and scream and burn,
The breeze, once kind, turned sharp as Fate’s own spurn.
And all the meadow's mirth was struck away,
Consumed in fire, as night devoured day.
Yet somehow, 'midst the ruin, they did live,
The maidens twain, with naught but breath to give.
The first did lie as if in slumber deep,
Her limbs unshaken, sunk in dream or sleep.
The second stirred, with eyes to heaven thrown,
And saw her field to but a cinder blown.
Her elbows bore her trembling frame upright,
Her gaze bereft of joy, her soul of light.
And silent was she, as if words had fled,
For what is there to say when all is dead?
O cruel world! To turn such grace to grief!
What balm remains, what hope, what faint relief?
Is this the end of all things sweet and fair,
A dragon’s ire, and smoke upon the air?
A shadow vast o’ercast the golden dun.
Behold! From out the eastern gloom there flew
A dragon dread, of scale and temper blue.
With breath of rot and furnace-flame it came,
And scorched the field with wrath and seething flame.
The grasses, once as green as envy’s eye,
Were turned to ash beneath the blackened sky.
The trees stood charred, mere husks of what had been,
And flowers died, as though they’d never seen
The light of morn nor kissed the dew of spring
All beauty lost beneath the demon’s wing.
The very air did crack and scream and burn,
The breeze, once kind, turned sharp as Fate’s own spurn.
And all the meadow's mirth was struck away,
Consumed in fire, as night devoured day.
Yet somehow, 'midst the ruin, they did live,
The maidens twain, with naught but breath to give.
The first did lie as if in slumber deep,
Her limbs unshaken, sunk in dream or sleep.
The second stirred, with eyes to heaven thrown,
And saw her field to but a cinder blown.
Her elbows bore her trembling frame upright,
Her gaze bereft of joy, her soul of light.
And silent was she, as if words had fled,
For what is there to say when all is dead?
O cruel world! To turn such grace to grief!
What balm remains, what hope, what faint relief?
Is this the end of all things sweet and fair,
A dragon’s ire, and smoke upon the air?
And lo, the maidens wept amid the scorched remains, their tears falling silent where once flowers reigned. Ash clung to skin where sunlight once did kiss, and the meadow, their home, lay still in deathlike bliss.
From hill and vale, from cottage and crooked lane, those who had oft peered at the meadow with quiet disdain, or wistful wonderment, did now cry out in shared lament. For the beauty once taken for granted was gone, and their hearts did echo with the song of loss.
“A field no more,” quoth they, “but a grave of grace. What cruel fate hath wrought this place?”
Then arose in them a trembling fire, not of anger, but of will. “Let not such splendor perish still.”
Messengers were sent, both fleet of foot and feathered wing, their hands clutching scrolls of sorrow and plea. Across land and sea they flew, unto the very kingdoms that once sought the maidens’ favor:
“To the Lords of Shell and Salt, of Mountain and Forge,
To the Forest Realms where dreams doth gorge,
To the Towers of Song, and the Realms Beneath,
To those who court with crown or wreath,
Hear now our cry, not for conquest nor gain,
But to mend a field stricken with pain.
Send ye seeds, and roots, and blooms,
Trees with shade, and vines that plume.
Send fruits to feed, and herbs to heal,
Send hearts that love, and hands that feel.
And if thy courage still holds true,
A vanguard, noble, brave, and few:
To guard the field from fire and claw,
To keep the peace with watchful awe.”
So rang the scrolls, and so did fly
Unto the corners of the sky.
And whilst the kingdoms read and pondered,
The little ones, the bairns who’d wondered,
Did act without command or call.
With tiny hands they came, one and all.
One bore a crust of bread, still warm.
One wrapped a doll in cloth, well-worn.
One brought a blanket stitched with care,
And laid it near the maidens fair.
They knew not magic, nor state, nor song,
But they knew a heart that had been wronged.
And so they knelt upon the ash,
With offerings simple, pure, and brash.
For in the smallest kindness bright,
might be born again a world’s delight.
But now, the world must draw its breath,
Will kings and queens rise from their rest?
Will elf and dwarf, and beast and bird
Heed the summons they have heard?
Or will they falter, proud and cold,
And let the field lie gray and old?
Thus waits the world, and so wait we,
For what is beauty, but what we choose to see…
…and save.
From hill and vale, from cottage and crooked lane, those who had oft peered at the meadow with quiet disdain, or wistful wonderment, did now cry out in shared lament. For the beauty once taken for granted was gone, and their hearts did echo with the song of loss.
“A field no more,” quoth they, “but a grave of grace. What cruel fate hath wrought this place?”
Then arose in them a trembling fire, not of anger, but of will. “Let not such splendor perish still.”
Messengers were sent, both fleet of foot and feathered wing, their hands clutching scrolls of sorrow and plea. Across land and sea they flew, unto the very kingdoms that once sought the maidens’ favor:
“To the Lords of Shell and Salt, of Mountain and Forge,
To the Forest Realms where dreams doth gorge,
To the Towers of Song, and the Realms Beneath,
To those who court with crown or wreath,
Hear now our cry, not for conquest nor gain,
But to mend a field stricken with pain.
Send ye seeds, and roots, and blooms,
Trees with shade, and vines that plume.
Send fruits to feed, and herbs to heal,
Send hearts that love, and hands that feel.
And if thy courage still holds true,
A vanguard, noble, brave, and few:
To guard the field from fire and claw,
To keep the peace with watchful awe.”
So rang the scrolls, and so did fly
Unto the corners of the sky.
And whilst the kingdoms read and pondered,
The little ones, the bairns who’d wondered,
Did act without command or call.
With tiny hands they came, one and all.
One bore a crust of bread, still warm.
One wrapped a doll in cloth, well-worn.
One brought a blanket stitched with care,
And laid it near the maidens fair.
They knew not magic, nor state, nor song,
But they knew a heart that had been wronged.
And so they knelt upon the ash,
With offerings simple, pure, and brash.
For in the smallest kindness bright,
might be born again a world’s delight.
But now, the world must draw its breath,
Will kings and queens rise from their rest?
Will elf and dwarf, and beast and bird
Heed the summons they have heard?
Or will they falter, proud and cold,
And let the field lie gray and old?
Thus waits the world, and so wait we,
For what is beauty, but what we choose to see…
…and save.
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