The Black Pistol Inn rumbles with a bright and cheerful crowd. Poets take the stage and give their best prose in hopes of landing the five silver pay off the Pistol has offered as a prize. A darkly clad Gothic man takes the stage. He glowers at the audience, pulling his hood and veil tightly around his gaunt face. His words are slow, dour, and hold the barest emotion.
“dreary death
shadows morbid in the flame
unrestful corpses are to blame
knife the eyes of pumpkin shell
to ward the gate of those that fell
the ancient rotting people rise
darkness crushes once blue skies
skin to flesh and bones to powder
brains to munch to brainy chowder
drowning sadness boils hearts
tearing bodies rending parts
smile for he who on this day
has no soul for he to pay”
The Gothic man bows deeply, rises, and awaits for an applause that comes in small bursts. The Gothic folk in the crowd just glower back, and he steps away from the stage.
The next poet, a well dressed Cappacian bard, and owner of the Black Pistol steps on stage. “I have a poem to share, though I am fully disqualified from entering the contest, I thought my Cappacian patrons would find it amusing.” Bastione clears his voice and takes on a sad countenance.
“There was a desert in time gone by
Where widowed men went to cry
And as their tears struck the sand
The salty drops drowned the land
And those who couldn’t stop the flood
Began to cry a salty blood
And in this way they died forlorn
And from the muck a wolf was born
The wolf was made of man’s harsh sorrow
It found no leader for it to follow
Along it starved to city near
No food was given out of fear
Its eyes fell on a forest maiden
With ample meat her bones were laden
But something exploded from her hand
As she gave a clear command
“Eat them all!” she screamed with rage
“Show them nature wont be caged.”
The wolf’s back began to twist
Paws stretched to rending fists
Its muzzle shrunk into a nose
And on each foot grew five toes
And that nightmare creature did obey
And that whole town the wolfman slayed.
The forest maiden became a tree
As she cackled merrily.”
The poem does seem to sit well with a number of Cappacian patrons. It is also causes a number of Rogalian’s in the audience to double check that their neck are covered.
Bastione steps down from the stage as a tall, well build Njordic woman greets the audience warmly.
“This is an old song, better left to competitions like this, but its sentiment has been central to my family since our axe’s crushed our foes.” She begins to sing a song, its rhythm aged.
“Ancient Ones, guide my spear so that we may feast
As we drain the blood from the beast
Our foes deceased
Sanctify our souls in the blood of our enemies
The new ways hold no sway
when the leaders bleed from their hearts
your will to be appeased
bring a storm of bloodshed
bring a storm of disease
Bring our foes low, low, low.”
The song inspires a number of patrons to howl, slam their tankards and order more drinks.
Standing in the corner, Bastione shares words with a Njordic man. The Cappacian pats his friend on the arm and wipes a tear from his eye. “Arnorr, marry that woman immediately.”
