Postby Topaz » Fri Feb 16, 2024 6:31 pm
Wicked the wind, winter's minion.
Icy breath from eastern mountains,
caverns of frost, cold demon-lairs,
sweeps over plains and shivering grasslands
to the southern shore, the sea-border.
Down the desert it drives the sand,
freezing and fierce. Fleeing, the scorpions
hide in the Wall: winter is here.
In the pirate keeps of Kilican Island,
at Ethucan's borders, its barred gateway,
and over Valorn, from Verthedge to Fartown,
the days are short, the dark descending.
Deepening yet, the year's midnight,
cold and heavy, covers the land.
Then Sunrifter turns, retracing its steps:
the long night lightens, lifting the gloom
dark as N'rolav. The day-flower
unfurls its petals, pale and shadowed,
but holding hope, the high gods' promise.
So Valorn's foes, vile darkness-followers,
strive to shadow our strongholds and dwellings,
with a long siege, a slow overcoming.
With cold fear, cruel enslavement
and dreadful death they dare to threaten.
But the light stands. In starkest winter
the fires of Valorn valiantly burn,
holding at bay Balthazar's minions.
They flee the fire by friendship kindled;
they run from the light of laughing companions,
the sound of sword-mates singing together,
glad guild-gatherings, greetings to strangers,
smiles and hand-clasps, shouts of joy.
Against that strength they strive in vain,
as darkness strives, yet Sunrifter prevails,
striding the path of sunreturning.