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A Tyrant's Tragic Tale =
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Prologue
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Heed my call, o spirits of Moon,
Grant me your voices, all your wit,
To tell this story I'm about to knit
Of past events long forgotten
Though still living in some minds,
Who, wishing it not become rotten,
Tell it to their offsprings, their kind.

While it may draw tears from many,
It aims only to pass on lore,
Never to be lost, never abandoned.
With that I take you to the past,
In the midst of a tyrant's roar,
To heed his words, as you have mine.

Part One
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The Warlord
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The warlord calls his servants here,
Seated on his tow'ring throne,
Expecting them to forthwith appear,
Amidst the tainted rumbling:
"Come ye here, deserving servants,
Bring the captives afore my eyes,
Those I captured with my fist
Along Moon's northern cesious flow.
Are my words unclear, must I insist?!
And bring old traitor Agathos,
Who whispered I let them go,
For they, he said, will have revenge,
And I will be the object of their blame.
This the traitor said, in good spirit, but
Thinking, wrongly, it's a lion's province
To fear a swarm of worthless mice."

Swiftly servants heeded his call,
Brought the dungeon-dwellers out;
Poor the wretches, their step a crawl,
None stands proud, none is stout.
Heavy shackles 'round their ankles,
Handcuffs sealing workers' hands.
When the warlord's eyes met theirs,
He said unto each poor soul his sentence,
Falling deaf to their pleads and prayers,
Not even acknowledging repentance.
To one the stake, another the axe,
He gave freehearted gifts to each:
Some to hang by rope's angry noose,
Sword to pierce the few left's hearts.

"Go ye woodlings, back to nature,
Sent painted with red stains,
And tell your green brothers,
Tell your sisters of your pains.
Lastly I ask you this message to convey:
As you ended, so shall they.",
Said he so, but under Moon's embrace,
For those who love her more than self,
Death can't lure whimpers from their lips.

Slammed the stake one-two times,
Swept the saber one-two times,
Shivered the gallows under weight,
But the woodlings ne'er sobbed
Never wept, nor ground their teeth.
Through the canals grim blood flowed,
Never wept, nor ground their teeth.
Sad bodies fill'd the stinking hole,
But never wept, nor ground their teeth.
Instead, they send Sun a farewell kiss,
Say goodbye to beauty,
And find it somewhat of a duty
To die a death of bliss.

Bloody creeks flow through the field:
Young blood watches dead blood flow
Smiles, laughs, leaps with joy
At the woodlings' horrid torture:
But old blood sees same torture
As a thing they know, and fear,
And know they may soon suffer.

Furious the warlord's gaze,
As he watches hellish torture,
His heart a tombstone ablaze;
But ablaze not with rage,
But respect and admiration
Of these silent vermin,
Who die as if death were salvation.

Vengeance cannot be had on a hero,
Until he screams, "Enough! I surrender!"
And his valor is reduced to a zero.
The warlord slaughtered many heroes,
Trampled them, in coldhearted splendor,
But none cried, none surrendered.

Laugh away the one who yells, shouts,
Cries, and dies dressed in misery.
Fear the one who has no doubts
As the saber sweeps through his throat.

Seeing such untold virtue,
Warms the warlord's frigid heart,
The icy fortress feels the stab
Of compassion's mighty spike.

Is it sorrow he feels, slaying
Those vermin who oppose his reign?
The warlord has no heart for weevils;
Fear stops him; he fears he'd lose his mind
If he were to let compassion into his heart,
So he keeps it locked away.
He ignores the sweat sliding
In cold, wet waves, across his skin,
And he watches stakes and gallows,
And thinks it nature's way - his right.

See the head, held up high
Spitefully, rising to the heavens;
See the bright forehead and, below it,
The courageous eye's glint;
See the stalwart body, stoutly standing;
And tell me if anywhere you see
Even the slightest shade of fear.

Yet the warlord shouts, nigh roaring,
Glaring at the fearful with a wrath:
"Come, Agathos, cowardly old wretch,
Where to now, where will you run
Now that I've erased the weevils?
Do you see now, it's not my nature,
To fear even a hundred of them?
You nod! But your sins are done;
It's best you leave for the clouds.
Climb up on the pregnant gallows,
And know that you shouldn't fear,
For fear is what brought you here.
If ye others share his fears
Of the woodlings, and if ye
Think I'm wrong to have done this,
Step forward, I'll send you to
Join this traitor; you can fear together."

Terrified is the old man's face,
Terrified his son, Melkis,
Squealing, squealing, "Stop, don't!"
All in vain, the old man screams,
"No, don't!", all in vain, his son squeals,
"Don't, stop!", crying golden tears.

The warlord towers, mountain beast,
Frosty headstone, divine, supreme,
With his breath, here comes death,
Old man Agathos is no more:
"Help, help!", screams he last,
A moment 'fore his execution:
His throat is halved, he a whole no more,
His last breath - silence.

Part Two
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The Nighttime Traveler
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Who is the shadowed form
That under Night's embrace
Climbs and breathes along Avechna's Teeth?
By night he travels, reversed his norms,
Once rising above; now cow'ring underneath.
His soul shivers when he sees
A shadow taller than himself.
He fears for his life, for he fears
He won't succeed, won't lift the burden
That upon his soul now lies.
Against mind, against his fears,
Not conscious of where or why,
He marches forward, onward.

Be it a soldier, a scholar, a spy,
A wretch with a life gone awry?
Neither a scholar nor a spy,
But Melkis, the warlord's servant;
A feared general, Wilde's executioner,
Known to old and young alike.
And if by daylight he strode the woods
Even guarded by the gods themselves,
He would undoubtedly lose his head.

Valiant, though unaware,
He climbs the mountains,
Pushing ever onward, forward,
He glances at Avechna's Peak,
Passes by sans second glance,
All the hills are same to him,
All the mountaintops alike,
But he travels by the north,
Ultimately seeing pearly blue,
Tired and exhausted by the walk,
He stumbles and plummets into
The river he'd last seen months ago.

The chilling water 'cross his skin,
He floats for a dozen heartbeats,
And lies at last upon the river's rim.
Rising to his feet, awake, he yells:
"Grant me aid, o Moon's guardians!"
A guard runs swiftly through the trees,
And the guard, he answers sternly:
"In good faith, weary wanderer!
Where from are you, where, and
What luck has brought you here?"

Wisely the feared general,
Wisely he responds:
"At your request I give only truth:
I am the slayer of Moon River's Battle
My head is priced high in your forest!
I bear three miseries on my chest:
One misery that pains me is
That your folk suffered at my warlord's hand.
Another misery that pains me,
That my father died at my warlord's hand.
The last misery that pains me,
That my warlord has yet to die at my hand.
By nature's nurturing breast,
Let me speak with your commander,
Whom I wish to make my own."

Wiser yet the guard responds:
"Drop your weapon, unknown wretch,
And bear your head wherever you please."

His loyalties switched, his faith renewed:
With each step the reborn Melkis takes,
His warlord's star grows ever dimmer,
Its majestic life destined soon to conclude.

Part Three
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The Invasion
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Fair Serenwilde, divine thy beauty,
When all things evil gaze upon your tree
And choose to turn back, look away,
War dispell'd by your ancient song,
Disease eradicated in your healing embrace,
Death but a stepping stone to bliss.

But from the east he rides,
A ruthless horde at his side,
Come to pillage, bring but ruin,
To collect his earthly due.
Come sword upon the woodland's roots,
Come axe across the woodmen's heads,
The Serenwilde screams, her voice heard far,
"What is our crime? What have we done?
Have we sinned against your people?
Or have we been too mild?", they ask,
"What is your crime? What have you done?
You live, defying me, your life is my bane!"
Come the warlord to the Wilde.

Come he to the forest,
The verdant well of life,
And where'er he saw a face
As bright as the dawn's rise
There he cut the air, and
Cut the head with it.

But even the might of heroes
Even the terror of tyrants
Can suffer a slip of the hand:
And so the warlord swiped
With his mighty blade, to cleave
Another head, claim another life,
And claimed a life he did,
But the target safely snuck away -
For the warlord clove instead
The head of one of his own.
Where so far it was the woodlings' fault
To merely live, to be who they were,
Now it also was their fault, the tainted
Head that lay on their forest's soil.
As cowardly as any tyrant is
When faced with disgrace and failure
The mighty warlord shouts, enraged:
"Malphes, Argor, Wayas, Pilmius,
Go, my dogs, for my amusement,
Romp right through this filthy maze,
And let me hear the mice's screams!"

Swiftly now his servants followed
The mighty warlord's selfish wishes,
Jumped, danced, straight through wood,
Cutting, slicing, a wind of swords,
Everywhere the verdant trees,
Turned, with sorrow, into carmine.

But what poor soul could put in words
The terror running through the woods:
The sighing grass and crying trees,
The poor creatures whose home this is?
A man can only say so much, but
The horrors have no bounds.
So ends the day, in bloodshed and tears,
Sun leaves with joy; Night is reluctant to come,
Dusk encloses the ruined land.

Part Four
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A Lesson on Debt
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A quiet teatime one might call it,
The rabid Tainted's calm repose,
An army that but moments ago
Ravaged an innocent land,
Now sits around a campfire,
Talking of their spouses' quirks.
The warlord joins them soon enough,
Yells erupt within the jolly crowd,
But overpowered are the mighty voices
By the rumbling that comes from the west
From deeper within the Great Forest.

Barely is a glance cast askance at the forest
Wherefrom a hundred streams of silverlight rush forth
And overwhelm the warlord's servant Wayas:
He is burst away, his mortal coil unwanted,
And his death tolls doom for the rest,
For from within the Great Verdant Forest,
Comes a sea - an ocean of wildelings;
Come warlord to destroy the Wilde,
Come Wilde to slay the warlord.

"The Serenwilde awakens!", come shouts from the forest,
"Serens, Serens everywhere!", screams Malphes in fear,
And barely did the mighty warlord glare at Malphes
For his cowardice, when a silence fell over them,
And a beat of doom overtook Malphes' heart
As his soul joined the march of the dead.

And little did young Pilmius know
That before he could sing another verse
Of the song his mother sang him,
A hundred druid voices would command
The forest itself to turn against him,
And thorny brambles would ensnare his form
Which a moment later would be a form no more.

And in vain did Argor raise his staff against
A mass of shining shofas, vain were his attempts
When faced with blades of justice.

And in the midst of the battle, among all the bloodshed,
A strikingly unnoticed event came about:
The heart's content of Melkis, son of Agathos,
When he drove his righteous dagger
Into the mighty warlord's heart,
And little did he care that a sword
Had already found its home in his back;
He fell to the grassy ground,
A righteous smile on his face,
And joined his father quietly.

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Epilogue
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Multiples of many years went by,
A flock of young folk said goodbye
To their parents, their Serenwilde,
Blithely unaware of the past
As future generations oft are.
But there still exists a remnant
That tells the tales of old;
And one such tale that it likes telling,
For yes - it can like and then dislike,
Is the tale you've just been told.

Whether 'tis true or false
Or perchance somewhere betwixt,
Is solely for the remnant to know.