[center][h2][color=0054a6]The Wolf[/color] [color=9e0b0f]& The Raven[/color][/h2] [h3][color=00aeef]The Prelude[/color][/h3][/center] [center]Mantle of night, the darkness shroud consumes the sky Winter’s might sings aloud the stab of wind-crooned cry As the day’s faint warmth bleeds out the body of the kingdom Dawn faded to dusk, drained golden corpse, embodiment of wisdom Enlightened blaze eclipsed by nightfall, the domain of horror This be the land claimed under the still-reign of Aurora Tired farmers return home, wooden house with a fire A wife’s loving embrace a welcome place to retire Hear her humming soft tunes, lullaby Little boy tucked in as eyes close to dreams of summertime Green fields painted below the heavenly ocean and the sunrise Glittering beams, the celestial shine coasts across time Welcoming the sleeper upon a silver-lined bed Where weary past fades and forgotten tears go unshed Farewell to the troubles of the mourning, bliss be the night… But not all Aurora drifts away to the peaceful streams Drunken stirs of men hide behind masks, gleeful gleams Poured upon troubled faces with the sip from a handle Sweet taste of brimming ale by the dim of a candle Yet no drink brings back the light of cherished days Nor revive the faces of remembered brave Nightwalkers all, lost in a present with no home Armed only with faint belief in hope to find and atone Walking the shadows of time fostered halls, But there was one who walked the darkest corridor of all Through the icy hiss of winter chill A stranger walks with bitter will Hooded and cloaked, a clouded ghost This man who steps with shrouded hope Wraith with dusk-shaded eyes in the dark Fading away, his gaze hides no spark Deadened grass decays beneath his feet Colored leaves crunch to defeated beat His footsteps wander upon The Fallen Plains As it’s called for the battle it was named Where the winds whisper tales from the graves He sees – returning crimson stains And the faces to the souls he had slain Their stories etched to the steel of his blade Written in blood, unwanted history he has claimed… Midnight strider lost in Aurora; this nation Buried bones of the kingdom Rouwen beneath its foundation And these plains are but a pillar to the formation! Quiet… The stranger hears an answer to his pain A single Raven, calling out to his name Wings of Sorrow glide through the void But it’s the eyes he tries to avoid Perched in silence the guilt weighs on his shoulder His voice is soft: “Can you pray for a soldier?” Gentle beak taps with the softest touch Yet the strider reacts with honest disgust Raven wails across the skies, a tragic hymn Reflected of him, fluttered tears dance in wind The droplets utter words to heart within Fallen echoes remind him of sin Until he marches on to find comfort in The things that were and might have been Lights of the dim, a sign stands at its post ‘The Wolves Den: resign and have a toast’ Weary they come, a traveling host By old Greywood where peace be the most The storied place of forested sea Passed on by greenest leaves, delicate breeze Yet no life has grown on these desolate trees Not for years under an endless freeze Breath of death this malevolent disease A dragging end to affectionate grief Sorrow of Old Rouwen passed on to those that believe Of past and the present the tale that they weaved With regretful threads still attached to the deceased A creak as the door opens to the stranger Dark silhouette of what they see as a ranger No welcome to outsiders, simply in their nature A woman’s hate sees but in this can we blame her? Stalker of the dark dressed as the reaper “Freak” is the whisper, the name he is keeper Unholy glare of the void, they perceived him A demon of nightmares that which they dreamed in Though unseen, he knows that they’ve seen him From the legends that would speak grim He takes his drink and sits alone, a phantom of their hall Liquid venom numbs the shadow on the wall The tragic plays performed in his asylum Are silenced by the poison pool of his quiet island Where sweetest death greets tired lips Pondering upon what could be his final sips Before the last gasp atop the Broken Peaks, private strifes Ended with a mournful leap released from The Quiet Heights… Gentle strings tug him free of faraway plane A single chord echoes ever-laid pain And all now listen to the forgotten bard Lute in hand of a man grown hard Though an angel’s voice still remains As he begins to sing, his heart in twain Honey tongue brought to sorrow Dripping of silver sadness born from tomorrow The icy heart of the stranger remembers That singer who will be known forever As Veril, lost friend found in the embers Of life’s fire he thought had been ended Strider amongst the divided Though united by Veril’s song they are guided Drifting upon heavenly twine, warmed by wine And the singer’s voice begins to bind [i]“These scars, they have burned For silver stars unreturned My friends have gone Beyond the gaze of dawn, And heaven weeps of mortal sorrow That bleeds upon the morrow This song of a long faded lovers' haven A melodious cry for the Wolf and the Raven…”[/i][/center]