Crow. Crow. Crow.
The death-drums did pound,
How hearts would rise in thrill, in fear,
Crow. Crow. Glorious and mighty,
They pounded onwards, speaking tongues
As Eliar was lead by the slinking Predator's pride,
The distance closing upon the border's of the Darkest Heart,
Shadows did creep and beguile, as they pass'd,
The cool touch of them sweeter than any light
That had shone upon them from the Mother Moon.
Brennan spoke in the dead tongue, upon Eliar’s path,
The Fathertree loomed above, slick and black,
‘E-liar,’ he cawed, his throat rough,
Some had gathered of the Coven, Cult, and Harbinger at the roots,
For those of crow’s murder hid high upon the boughs donned with purple flora,
‘Warrior of the Serenwilde, cast aside,’ upon this, all laughed,
Eliar felt nothing but a quiet sense of comprehension.
‘You come to us, by the command cone of the Predator. You wish to be of the Swarm?’
An uncertain shuffle of feet danced by Eliar’s back, but he knew it to be Inashi.
‘We do. By pack, we have seen the truth of Nature’s weak-hearted ways,
We must evolve,’ replied the tae’dae his muzzle twitching,
As the corpse-like fellow clicks his rotted tongue -
The crowd arose with sudden dissent,
Jeering and mocking the cries of Serenwilde’s merciful people,
Many called for their heads, many only sought blood tax,
But one from the depths of the roots emerged in shadow,
And all stood aghast as the Chosen of Night stood in their presence,
For it was rare, that Rowena Nightshade should arise to greet outsiders,
‘Give them a trial by Crow, Stormcrow - If they succeed in the aspects,’
She smiled coldly, her figure wreathed shadow, ‘then let them swear the oath.’
Sneering in response, the cadaver could only concede,
‘The nai’Dorin is only for the wyrden,
‘Very well, grovel to the Dark Father, you worms -
Let us hope Crow blesses you with vision, for the work to come.’
Sorian aside Eliar, shuddered in dismay, yet the others held fast.
The Great Winged-One loomed above, aloft amongst the slime-slicked carrion,
As scent of old death swept over them as silence rose from his lone caw,
In the haze, Eliar and his company fell prostrate before Brother Crow -
Visions of blood thirst and dark spirit swirled about them in ominous lines
As the shadows began to paint what was seen in their mind’s eye,
The White Hart struggling in ropes, tied to the ground,
His antlers torn from his head in a bloody trophy presented to Glomdoring,
Eliar gasped aloud, while wyrdlings shifted their slender hands to each other’s ears,
Their whispers mixed with sounds of delight and amusement - This would be a true challenge.
Mists warping and writhing, the low sonorous beat of the Drums of the Dead strike loudly,
And seemingly at the sound, the shadows shift to reveal the Hirafae Hills,
The eyes of the centaurs glazed over as they are led to the Hag, the challenges of spirits,
Crow. Crow. Crow!
Another strike of the funerary rumble of the Drums.
At last, the shadows parted to reveal the Throne of Night unbuilt,
The redcap hungrily watching blood pour from the wrists of Her daughters.
‘We know what me must do, ‘ murmured Hiawaith as the those of the ‘talon gazed down at him,
‘Yes,’ Sorian admitted as he rose, his hesitation apparent as he moved to stand,
‘But now?’
Inashi and Eliar smiled grimly at one another, clasping forearms,
‘As soon as the New Moon falls.’
Yet, not all was settled in the gloom,
Eliar who sensed still Crow’s distrust as blood drizzled upon the soil,
Spoke in harsh a crying reverie,
Which struck ice into the Wyrden despite their cold spectacle -
‘Glorious, mighty Crow - My allegiance thus I swear upon these trials,
Until the last feather falls from the Deathly Drums,
Until the Wyrd itself cleanses all of the world! Thus I am your servant!’
His blackened company at his prostrated side so too fell to their knees once more,
Their own voices mingling with the cry of, ‘F’AI GLOMDORING! F’AI GLOMDORING!’
Groans of soft, muted surprise fell across the wicked crowd,
as Crow Himself flew from His crooked perch,
And feasted upon that which was now His for the first time.
.

The days, and years turned to darkness, where Sun no longer beheld importance,
And all settled within the fingerling branches of the trees,
The sanctuary of servitude,
Hiawaith soon grew tall and stalwart in wyrdenwood-hood,
His gaping hollow granting safety to the darkest of creatures,
The most cutting of blood-leaves!
’neath the limbs of black sludge, the tears of Gloriana’s fate now of use -
Did Sorian strum upon the instrument of his design with whispering Shadowbeat,
‘Tum-ta-tum ra-tat-tum!’
The elfen sang, his voice clear, and eyes of shadowfire,
How pleased the Dirge was at the song, which [with speculation] had woven true,
With rise and falling, the company began to feel at peace,
The safety of the darkness rocking them close to the bosom of the Beating Heart,
No disarray fell upon them in the dark, each child having their place,
Each of them wholesome and hardworking, that the company soon respected all,
At last, shallow Moon grew more feeble in Her waning,
The bright strands volatile and fading, even when Sun set its last,
And all of the beasts that crawled and slunk into the shadow grew bold.
A direwolf woke Eliar upon the new vision Mother Night,
An inky smoke of silence, Her beauty that never seemed to dim,
The wolf’s solemn cry of biding its time for the hunt perfected Her natural will,
The empty sound ringing upon his ears,
How easily thoughts would come to him, clear and crystal in the shadow,
It was not like the moonlight which strained his eyes, shallow its reach,
Darkness came in corners, as reflections behind the figure of each mortal shell -
Such it was to caress the mind of the tae’dae with respite,
Talons scratching, beak a’biting, tearing flesh supine and bloody.
Q’WE’KAR. Q’WE’KAR Q’WA’LI. Q’WE’KAR!* (Ravenous We. Hunger Fledgling. Ravenous We!)
With heaves of his chest, Eliar flung himself from bed,
The voice of Crow setting his brow to furrow and sweat,
Inashi stood above the woodland cot beside in Eliar’s glade,
Rising from his dark dreams, Eliar saw Inashi for the first time,
He was clothed in darkness, and bore nekai, the mask of Scorpion upon his eyes,
‘Ah, it is you,’ said the tae’dae loosening the grip on his heavy ax,
‘None but me, my brother, Night has fallen, and the New moon comes in three days,’
Said the igasho, his posture collected and long arms set to action,
‘Call Hiawaith,’ the bear did grunt with raspy emphasis,
A great creaking erupted behind the two companions, solemn and moaning,
The grove gave a great shake, the snaking upon the waste-grass flatten’d,
As what stood as shelter above Eliar’s cradle gave way,
’Twas the tall, crimson-marked Hiawaith shrouded in sombre leaves,
‘Kk-ekk-yooouuuu—kkkeee-called?’ uttered the Wyrdenwood swaying forth-
‘As much as one can do,’ said the igasho with bared teeth,
‘How come you by my bedside so?’ Question’d the curious bear,
With a lurching shiver of his hollow, the tree answered,
‘The call of Wyrd pulses deep, its roots shift and cry out hungry always,’
‘Where that which seeks to consume itself, the Wyrd shall take,’ said he,
‘Or make, anew - It is why I watch across your head, with mine to the sky.’
Eliar jutted his chest wide, beating upon it with force,
‘Brother-mine, there is little a tree can do to stay the ever-dream,’
The tree shifted with a showering of leaves, falling as feathers autumn red,
Over the creaking of bark and root, Eliar murmured, ‘Yet of the Wyrd, one could.’
After many hours of preparation, they came upon the others,
Their journey began to the jagged hills of Hirafae, mountainous with bush and stone,
Horse-mortals, those of strange equine bodies and mortal features dwelled there -
Creating difficulty for the task of the great Hag to be done and open the veil of spawn,
In deft strums, Sorian easily summoned the spirits of heroes cradled in ruin,
’Twas he who gathered the fateful instruments of their death,
Hiawaith led the dumb’d horse-mortals lured by sweetgrass and sour fruit, of which they consumed much -
And followed his gnarled roots to the slick pool that fed the spawn-master,
The Hag crooned in pleasure and distorted in form, her task done as she intoned:
‘Deep within the pedestal of ancient hero’s past,
The treasure of the stagnant North embedded in puzzle’s light last -
Seek the sickle here, and bring to that which thieves their hoard,
So that spawn of mine-master to feed upon the Basin’s desolate road.’
So, they did as the entity bade - And such as the last glean fell into shadow
The sickle sprung forth from the pedestal, its emerald smear that the company beheld
Tiny it was within the tae’dae’s hand that it was nearly crushed,
Yet, they had all seen it before,
[Though all lights go out as do the flames of Glinshari]
It was Inashi who delivered the weapon to the thief, whose joy sent Crow to soar!
Wide where His great wings, the shade of his beak gleaming bloodied bright -
How pleased He was, this Wise, Trickster Crow,
For the Wyrd knew one Trial complete as the Liom cowered in His grove,
‘See what your hand has wrought, Eliar, Votary of Beetle,’ some distant voice rustled,
The great scents of sharpening oils and the rumble of thunder echoed many leagues away -
And all Eliar felt was a cold sense of justice,
Satisfaction tempering his stride as he stepped with his dark company,
Upon the roots of the Father, which now bore him eternal salvation.

VII

‘Ayah! F’ai Glomdoring!’ cried a fledgling crow through the totem-perched nest,
Many welcomed the company’s return, for the first of the trials was completed -
It was one of the Nightshade who said, in their strangely modulated tones,
‘Do not yet welcome these people, they must be cleansed of that foul light-‘
‘And that unbecoming gentility,’ cawed in a Stormcrow as the company strode past,
The Shee-Slaugh aside them both hushed them, for they too knew the art of playing two.
Then, as the company settled at the throne of Crow, for He was great as Night took notice,
Shadows of his wings struck the fallow earth, causing the eager roots to stretch for the four,
It was that undead  wraith who responded, with an chilling reprieve,
‘One trial done, more groveling to be done at His talons,
How you have dallied in the tasks, expecting the Wyrd to wait,
It waits for no mortal flesh, nor err -‘
Upon this a blind eye was turned.
And there our heroes began their next journey, and the next for many candle ticks,
There was no lengths spared to the attendance of their deeds,
For there is little effectiveness in the collectivity of crystal men or bird mortals,
Unless they are to be brought under the that which they assisted in Perfect Creation.
‘No Mercy for the self makes one strong, the Wyrd strong,’ remarked Inashi
As his watch upon the redcap was consistent as the fae drained the Daughters of Night,
One by one the pieces of Her Undying Shadow-Throne were stacked, and built anew,
But it was Eliar who had volunteer’d from the four of them to deliver the bloody fae,
To the Nest of Crow Himself, that beat within the heart of the Fathertree,
Descending through the Shadow Glass, its clandestine caress as whispers of flitting shadow -
The tae’dae, both older and wiser than before stood at last along the rickety boughs,
So long had their journey been, his own road into the shadows of perfection,
Black Sorrow had never once filled his heart with poison,
If only to direct it at the moon-demoness who had deceived them all,
His thoughts grew contemplative, and then -
‘Ayah! F’ai Glomdoring!’ cried another fledgling crow from distant nests,
Heralding the call, responded a voice in crystal bell-tones, ‘F’ai Glomdoring!’
With a feathery brush of wings, Crow turned his beady scarlet eye to the bear,
Sudden and distinct was the motion, that Eliar seemed to fall through such gazes,
Over and over, the spirit of his body pulled and warped,
The vision of the Shadow-that-Blocks-the-Sun pouring through his soul,
What violence embraced his heart, how hungry it was,
Ambition. Ravenous. Eternally Hunting.
The sensation of weightless flight, the harvest of reaping prey,
How the heavens caressed the spread of his form,
A woman’s voice lost within the rustle of feathers,
Soft and tender within the carnage that struck in the oblivion,
Revenge against Serenwilde, vengeance for Crow!
Gaudy was he, as the dizzying images flew past in torrential whirlwinds,
For all he knew was Wyrd. The Wyrd consumed. The Wyrd needed…
Gasps filling his barreled chest, his eyes focused, knees pressed trembling on the branches,
No more did the visions plague him
Even as his eyes examined the scarred talons of Crow,
The redcap’s task had been done for some-time, the plasma emptied from his dampened cap
All descended upon Eliar with their beliefs now solidified,
The dark company found him standing in the Realm of Shadows, their figures apparitions of death -
‘Where are the blades of dha’Wyrden-cree?’ The sonorous whisper of Sorian lifted, along his lyre,
Inashi, whose hooded eyes crept through the mask to rest upon the others, ‘The Stormcrow has them,’
‘Are we prepared to face the others?’
Questioned the stooping wyrdenwood at his side,
The conversation quickly subsided with the tuneless laugh of Eliar:
‘We have prepared enough,
Let us fulfill our oaths to the other servants,
Now let us see if they shall doubt our loyalties now!’
The other three fell silent,
Only slitted glances betwixt them to wonder this stranger now at their side,
Yet there was a strange comfort felt in them all, the filling of an empty space,
The cavernous void where moonlight would have thought to fill was cleansed at last.
New hearts did beat with the trembling of the Drums of the Dead,
As the shadows ascended and tilted them forward, downward to reveal the core of Fathertree,
All were waiting for them to be visible as what was left of Night’s hands cleared,
There was shouting in disbelief,
But it soon aligned to that of cries of rapturous understanding,
Such it was, even in the cacophony of the call of the murders of crows from the forest,
That the tongues of the wyrden blended as one, and it was one sublime elfen who slid from the crowd,
One of the daughters of Rowena,
Her eyes as verdant as the plains of the Moors of Grey,
Seared with intent, and secret promise, for within her arms she bore the blades of the Savants
While each of the company acquired one, it was Eliar who had it bestowed last,
The length of his claws severe and disturbed as their visages met, this elfen nymph of raven hair,
She assisted him, with the slip of the gauntlet mechanism, digging deep in his furry flesh,
With a grunt, and a low growl from the bear, this girl-child retreated in one breathless moment
That had all at once felt an eternity of sleepless nights veiled in silk,
Shaking the sensation, the crowd lifted, leaving swampy air heady with copper,
Warmth of the sticky punctured wounds oozing along his forearm,
His muscles flexed, the wet-black of his nose scented the on coming scourge,
And Eliar granted a cold smile to his brothers,
Who awaited his commands for retribution.
.

There was nothing bleak about the year that followed the triumph of the Dark Four,
Each of there positions within the dark forest grew as time progressed,
How feverish their dedication grew,
For the most part, ’twas Eliar’s alone that rose the highest,
Many battles were fought against the North, and victorious amongst the dead -
With such battles and there is instant glory, fleeting as the sunset,
But within the bear’s mind it lingered like the mead of the Elders,
Poetic and full of inspiration, ambition to rise to the heights of legend
Though many would not admit this, he grew to be prominent,
Perhaps it was for the nature of his duty, and loyalty to the Wyrd -
But amongst other things, it was for his secret lust of one maiden,
The Daughter of the Queen of the Night, Ameliana -
It was she in his first years brought the blade of dha’Wyrden-cree,
And the bear could not ignore the terrible beauty, its subtle strains,
That she possessed with Night’s unending serenity,
Her eyes beheld all things with wonder,
What slaughter she participated in was of the vicious kind,
Clean, quiet and well-done with the strike of shadows twisting,
In his silence he adored her, collaborating with her at every opportunity,
To feed the Wyrden soil with blood and glory,
With the poetic lift of her pen,
Adjusting the heavy tomes that she as a small-ling could not reach -
Such gentleness was unheard of, as he had recently been appointed Messiah,
And thus, with such gifts of power upheld the ideals of the Cult,
Scores would watch his every move, to be sure that he did as he promised,
But in the stillness of all times, her touch gave him calm respite,
Even if it where the brush of her hand, or arm as she strode past,
Striking down a young buck of northern descent who had dared to cross her,
It was upon one of these days of battle that at last they spoke once more,
Ameliana the Murderous, as she was called, spoke:
‘Claws-and-teeth, gnashing deep, where do you go when you are alone?’
Taken aback, there was little he could utter other than to say,
‘With you, and the shadows of my mind,’
She smiled, teeth as razors glistening white,
‘I will follow you there, for that is where I go when I am alone,’
Such a voice she had, that Eliar stood still breathing caught,
‘Do you wish for happiness, Eliar the Black?’
His muzzle twitched, and the sickly breeze grew stale about the canopy,
‘No,’ the tae’dae relented,
‘No?’
‘No,’ he snapped, and her lips crushed against his,
One kiss, hungry enough to translate the emotions between them.
Hands were fasted in shadowy tendrils in the next year,
Children born, generations struck within the ravages of time,
Feeding the Wyrd with the love of the two darklings,
Even in tribulation both of them knew, one would follow the other -
So was many ballads of unions in the Wyrd,
Perfection of two halves of one whole, servant or otherwise.