Wrenogal: Act II, xc-xcii
xc
“By Shadow’s blood!” He fell back in the chair
he’d slept on. “Boar! You—put your axe down! Stay!
I’ll not—” he stood, and breathed miasmic air
that only he could have described that way.
For who had saved him but this bandit brute?
No thing could be the fouler! He must not
be, now the kindness, nay, the good work’s fruit
of one who should, by any ledger, rot!
His hands now clutched his Shroud, his only sense,
his only dire-saving recompense,
the only thing that bore him ever hence,
the only thing he’d trust to bear him thence,
and fled he into, still, the dark of night,
to be taught by his pain and firelight.
xci
I WARNED YOU NOT TO RUSH IT, CUR! The Shroud
now harnessed every fibre of his haunt.
I SAID TO STAY JUST AS YOU WERE! So loud,
his harvest of disgust, his deep-set daunt.
And while the Shadow screamed through fabrics black,
the mercenary failed to counter back,
his terror and his shame refused to yield,
there, by wood homes and cold night yet concealed.
Though not enough, the voice nor yet the night,
for Erison, who yielded to his fright,
now donned the hood, letting the Shroud now bite
his horror, his flame, pitching at a height
no man could bear, his fight became his blight,
he saw what no man had seen since the Wight:
the Shadow in his fulness held him tight,
within the safety of his sunless night!
YOU ARE NO SAVIOR OF YOUR SAVAGE TOWN!
YOU WILL NOT SEE ANOTHER SAFE SUNDOWN!
THIS NIGHT SHALL FINISH YOU, FOR YOU ARE MINE!
THE LIGHT WILL NEVER FIND YOUR SOUL IN TIME!
And in that fit of conflict, and of dread,
Erison saw the Shadow in his head,
but Locrien, whose wings are lit in flame,
made Erison’s sword bear the very same.
xcii
Concealed, still, by both hood and night, the blade
of Erison flung from his scabbard, red,
and, with his indecision and flux, bade
an oath of terror, sword held o’er his head:
“He cannot be! He cannot be my flight!
He must not ever be a godly sight!
No more will holiness make ruined, me,
I shall befall with hate all I can see!”
And blinded by the Shroud, Erison drove
with whirling sword of flame throughout Dustan,
ensuring that his brazen flame would rove
through every house, and every work of man.
While watched in terror every villager!
While watched with horror even his own Shroud!
While watched that Locrien, the flame lender,
While watched Lyrdoria, who was not cowed,
who sent a bird to find Her Wrenogal,
who darted with great haste over a man
who watched as well, ignoring his Shroud’s pull,
who saw Lydoria complete her plan:
For Erison now screamed into the light
he’d made, calling for flame to eat him, too.
Lydoria’s gale took away his blight:
the Shroud’s hood tore off him—complete, and true.
His screaming stopped, his mind was his again,
as his eyes met those of Nevgondian.