The Hunt for the Head, Second Volley.

[Fleetfoot]

This is the second half of the War of the Horn.  First Volley ended with the complete destruction of Sacorum.  Now only Eroc, High King of the Goblin Horde and the remaining minions stand.  The Elven Legions had begun their charge.  Lily and Fleetfoot start off on a hunt, alone.

Seek the Head, Herd the Horde.

A dance of swords.

A flight of arrows.

The tide of war.

The way before the Tower laid open.

The hammers ring,

Pounding, rushing to remove the bars of iron,

Barring the Great Bronze Door.

Down from the causeway.

Fleet feet striking.

One foot...leading.

Two feet...reaching.

Three feet...striding.

Four feet...leaping.

Lily, astride, once more,

From the scabbard her sword is ringing.

Fleetheart's song fading.

Hunting call...

The clear, clarion horns of the Tower are singing.

The bars are lifted.

The Gate...

Outward swinging.

To the Legion.

The Elven forces, legendary, mighty.

Lily, the Elven princess, dark and faire.

She with shorn and bloodied hair.

Calls.  Beckons.  Entreats.

Elven heralds...

Warriors.  Archers.  Knights.

Draw steel, nock the bow...

Drive the great, putrid Horde form our sight.

Ride fast.

Ride hard.

Make for the heart of this seething black mass.

Keep them from Eroc's pass.

Drive down...

Unto the shore.

Herd them...

Beast and minion and servant dark.

To the shore.

To the sands.

Make them pay for the bled and wither lands.

Now go.

Ride.  Fight.

Elven banner to the Tower holding tight.

But what of you?

A knight queries.

What path, which trail...

Down what road will you go.

Lily's eyes, deep and dreaming.

Spat sparks, a dormant soul,

Once more teeming.

Unto the Legion.

Warrior.  Archer. Knight.

She spoke.

I chase the crow.

With Fleetfoot's aid.

We have the Hammer.

I, alone, shall seek the Head.

By my hand.

By my blood.

By my blade.

This is a task I will not trade.

Now.  Now.

Loose the hounds.

Heralds with me.

The Horde to hell.

A hail of arrows...

Flaming searing brands.

Tears of smoke and fire.

Soaring out into the Horde.

Back they fall.

From the bloody Gate.

Seeking to avoid Sacorum's fate.

Down and away.

Toward the gorge.

They begin to run.

Fires roar.  Demons fell.

Lily's voice rang out.

An edict banishing the Horde to hell.

Fleet feet, iron shod, ringing.

The call of the legendary horns, singing.

Volley upon volley,

Through the ebony night, winging.

The bay of the hounds.

No, hell breed these.

But greyhound and whippet.

The noble mastiffs,

All faster and agile as a breeze.

A flash of grey.

A crimson cloak.

A line of silver.

A lethal stroke.

Into the dark.

Leading by firelight.

The Elven Legion...

To the bridge.

After the Horde, they do ride.

Upon the hill,

Fire glints off a snowy hide.

The Herald,

Watching, waiting.

Done and washed,

Freed from aeons of running and hating.

Down and away rushes the Horde.

From the shadows, Lily spies.

Fleetfoot, holds steady.

Patient, dreaming eyes.

A dance of swords.

A flight of arrows.

A flood of blood.

A legend, tense.

Waiting for the moment.

Knowing the sign.

For cunning is the Goblin King.

Seeking the head, unto him will Lily bring.

In the shadows he watches.

                                              Eroc, of the Goblin Horde, High King.

[Fleetfoot]

South to the Shore

By the light of the flaming brands.

The Horde turns away.

Breaks free of Sacorum's plan.

To the Pass of Eroc.

The High King of the Horde.

They try to flee.

Avoiding a just reward.

Lily's ringing edict they did hear.

Now they run...

Pell mell in fear.

The Legion, of the Hordes' cowardice, they know.

From all sides, all around.

Allies of the Vale are moving.

Consuming ground.

Out of the evergreen wood.

Up from the plains.

Charging from the Tower.

Closing from west.

Racing from the east.

Blocking the passage north.

South the only possible retreat.

To the shore.

Along the cliffs.

Through the gorges.

To the rifts.

To the mountain and the forge.

A few hoping to take continued life, a reward.

Squeaking.  Squealing. Sneezes.  Snarls.

In disarray the Horde away from the Legions veer.

Death a very real fear.

Down and away.

Into the heart.

Into the fray.

The Legion races.

Swords singing.

Shields crashing.

A troll skewered on a warrior's lance, thrashing.

Arrows, an endless hail, zinging.

Blood coursing ov'r the ground.

The numbers of the Horde, tumbling down.

The charge underway.

Warriors loosed,

Riding hard and away.

Overhead dragons twist.

Trying to destroy the Hammer.

Jets of fire cloaked in mist.

All are now chasing fate.

Fulfilling foretold deeds.

                                          There was as yet, still one task to heed.

[Fleetfoot]

The Herald and the Spy

With the Legions riding.

Lily and Fleetfoot.

Prepared to bring Eroc out of hiding.

A creature of cunning.

A creature of dark.

A monster who had long coveted living, breathing art.

To him they would go.

To draw him out.

It had to look like he ran the show.

All the pieces, plays in his hands.

There was no thing he did not know.

Or so the case had to be.

A door, hidden and small.

Opened in silent hinges.

Gave out onto the Tower's eastern wall.

A shadow moving.

Unseen in the panic and shifting dark.

To the forest.

Up the rise.

Clinging to the ridge line.

Skimming beneath watching eyes.

The Herald watches,

Knowing who comes.

She, who to the shadows, would not succumb.

Ducking a hedge.

A fox, swift across the final field.

A spirit, a child, proud and angry.

One with reckless courage.

One unknown who would not yield.

She was a secret.

She was a legend.

She was a Loreblood.

A star of the heavens.

The edge of the wood,

At last she reached.

Courage holding, leapt into the breach.

A small hand open and pleading.

A great silvery white head,

Ancient and needing.

A nose snuffling at the upturned palm.

A taste of sugar.

A small hand stroking the jagged scar.

A gentleness, until that moment, an alien thought,

Now to the Herald's aching soul, a balm.

A wise, knowing face.

A battle wound, a twisting mar.

She did not turn away.

She knew his pain.

The shadows of the past,

Of the night,

Sentenced to death,

 At the birth of the day.

A simple touch...

A trust earned.

The wrongs of the past,

Scrubbed away, burned.

In the dappled dark of that ancient wood.

Two souls, bruised and forgotten,

Knew they had a chance to heal,

Themselves and the world.

Purge the dark.

Cleanse the blood,

From horn and hands and land,

For good.

Into the shade they melted.

One and together.

                                                       The Hunt was under way.

[Fleetfoot]

Fleet Feet Away.

The cacophony of the battle.

Shook the air.

Numbed the trees.

Stained the river.

Brought the remaining Horde unto its knees.

A rank tide of bloodied flesh,

Heading south to the shore.

Of the Herald.

Of the Spy.

There was no trace, nothing left.

Now.  Now.  Now.

At long last did Lily,

Touch a toe to Fleetfoot's sleek side.

Now.  Now.  Now.

At long last did Fleetfoot prance.

Ready to exploit her mother's greatest pride.

From all sides the heralds and hounds,

Pressed and danced.

Panting and eager.

The call of the hunting horn.

Casting a swirling trance.

To the bridge with the pack,

At heel.

Across her lap,

The bone inlaid steel.

One foot...leading.

Two feet...reaching.

Three feet...prancing.

Four feet...gather.

Ov'r the rise and down the vale.

The pack races out.

Coursing over the meadows like a gale.

They know the scent.

The dank, heady smell.

From the deepest heart of the evergreen wood.

Beyond the northern gorge.

They scent the tang of sulfur,

Of blood, of iron,

Pouring froth from the forge.

Of Sacorum the slain King.

The striking of a goblin's hammer,

 From the south, does ring.

Away from the scent.

Moving toward the sound.

Silence falls over the baying hounds.

A tide of white and grey and black.

Into the wood, after the sound,

 Presses the cunning pack.

Fleetfoot springs.

Racing forward,

 Pressing at the heels of the hounds.

Lily tucks tight to her back.

Dawn is watching upon the cusp of the dark.

The smell of blood.

The autumn air, clear and sharp.

Red sun rising.

Shadows fading.

The Ivory Tower has seen the coming of another day.

Eyes watching as the pack disappears.

The baying ringing in their ears.

Northward the dogs and rider go.

To their master they do rush.

The bait taken.

Oh! How the silver blood will gush!

A cackle of glee.

A malicious grin.

A new day of games,

Does begin.

[Fleetfoot]

Into the Wilds

Fleet flying.

Stretching out, reaching long.

One foot...touching.

Two feet...gather.

Three feet...pressing.

Four feet...leaping.

Holding true.  Holding strong.

Aerial dancer.

Fleet stride holding.

Pace set...heart churning.

Touch and go.

Touch and go.

Like a tide ov'r the forest floor,

Fleet feet flow.

The blade to its scabbard is returned.

The pair,

Lily and Fleetfoot.

Are running silent.

Hushed as a great night hunting bird.

Fleet feet holding.

Finding the way.

Ov'r the stones.

'Cross the moor.

Howling wind.

High above beyond the cloaking branches,

And blanket of cloud.

A voice like that of a silver trumpet.

The singing of the dragons' roar.

Fleet feet fly.

Sharp eyes are watching.

Minds cunning and means unfair.

Are the tools Eroc wields,

Sworn to fell this legendary pair.

The dogs press deep and far.

Catching scents and warrened trails.

Deer.  Rabbit.  Elk.  Bear.  Quails.

Betwixt the ferns and down the rise.

Morning breaks.

The sun, bloody and telling, lifts free.

Of the mountains’ cleft.

Shadows swell with the crimson light.

Darker...deeper...richer...

Than all but the blackest night.

Like a pearl on a velvet bed.

Fleetfoot's perfect hide glows,

                                                  A beacon up and down the glen.

[Fleetfoot]

The Gambit

It is at the breaking of day...

The parting of night,

When Fleetfoot is easily seen.

A wraith in the wood.

A ghost of days done.

Of legends dead.

The coming dawn touches the shadows.

Bleeding black to red.

Now in the crimson haze.

Do deep and dreaming eye,

Plot the course and chart the way.

To the point of Raven's Wing.

The ending of the land.

The sea below, a tide of caves.

Tunnels that the Horde had sought to reach.

A sheer, deadly drop to the rocky shore.

The rock face, the holdings of the Loreborns.

From the stone formations the continuous,

Ringing, singing, sounding,

Of the war horns.

The great dragons of bygone days.

Are holding quiet...

Holding strong,

For the signal from their princess.

To finally put paid to this egregious wrong.

Hazy mists of the autumn day.

Shroud the wood,

And cloak the way.

Wraiths passing through the fog.

Ears alert and pressing tight.

Swiveling left and prancing right.

The hounds are silent,

Knowing their prey.

Something skitters,

A creature dark and small.

Rushing through the ferns.

Down and away the scent dogs,

Fly.

But more than a few ignore,

The cry to chase.

The call to hunt.

Bright eyes watching.

Listening...pressing through the gloom.

Eroc waits,

Watching for the tufted plume,

Of a fleeing legend.

Lily, her gaze circling 'round.

Her pretty face marred by a bewildered frown.

No sign of the prey.

Not a single twitch.

'Cross the brook.

Leap the yawning ditch.

Fleet feet cantor.

Covering ground...

Swallowing the distance.

As the sun drifts up.

To the left, the call of the sea.

To the right, dense forest.

Stretching as far as a beast can flee.

Ancient and massive,

Untouched by man.

This is the artery of magic,

Through which flows the power of the land.

The vale's heart.

Into it they plunge.

Fleetfoot and Lily.

The Loreborn and the Legend.

The living, breathing art.

Paint upon the canvas,

Waiting for the touch,

The breath of the brush upon their skin.

Patience.  Patience.

Is the key.

Holding stride.

A steady thrum.

Two hearts pounding, a quiet drum.

Branches cracking.

The crunch of moss,

Dusted and dry.

Whippet and greyhounds watching.

Button bright, curious eyes.

A faint creak...

Alder wood.

A bowstring drawn.

The target...who?

Sighting.  Sighting.

Long and sure.

Goblin archers holding now.

Wait my friend.

For the light to touch.

That perfect hide.

That coveted horn.

Only then may you fell the unicorn.

Fleet feet prancing.

Aerial dancer...

Anxious and leery.

A legend, tense...

Holding tight to a tormented path.

Glittering.  Gleaming.  Glowing.

All the while,

Of the archers, she has known.

Morning's pure clean light strikes,

White and pearl and smoke.

Cobalt and green and gold.

Orange and crimson,

Of the dying leaves.

A thousand hues of natures' pallet.

The stage is set, the curtain raised.

So begins the Aerial Dancer's flight.

Her ballet,

A very dangerous gambit.

[Fleetfoot]

Takillikan Glade

There is a place in this ancient wood,

Protected and sacred,

Untouched by mortals,

Time or blood.

Only the legends,

The fleeing lores know of this deep green place,

Those of dreaming eyes,

And lethal, ghostly grace.

In the heart of the Vale's heartwood,

Rests the glade,

Where Fleetfoot was born.

The birthplace of the Last Unicorn.

To the beginning, fleet feet have brought, the end.

For this is the place where a power,

Is born.

Clean. Perfect. Clear.

Unbridled love in its purest form.

Such is the gift of the Unicorn.

All around the labyrinth spans,

Farther than a lore can see.

A honeycombed warren of pools,

Trees, of a ten man span,

Nets of moss and clusters of ferns.

Dividing the pools,

Hiding secrets, forgotten and lost.

Massive branches dapple this glade,

Tinted leaves, hoar frost,

A gossamer mist all glow,

Even in the depths of the shade.

There is no sound here,

Except the song of a lark,

And the steady, beating drum,

Of Fleetfoot's heart.

Never before has another seen,

The maze of mirrors,

And magical pools,

Still and cool and green.

The largest trees,

Cloaked in swaths of lichen, moss, and peat.

The heady loam beneath cloven feet.

Takillikan Glade.

The whispered name of this place.

Takillikan Glade.

The name unknown to all but a few.

Time flows with the will of the blessed,

Who have called this haunted hollow,

Home.

Few were they in number,

Fewer still are those who linger on,

Awaiting the return,

Of the Aerial Dancer...

Her ethereal, graceborn stride.

It was here,

In the depths of Takillikan's golden seeped gloom,

With the fabled Dire Wolves,

At her heels pressing,

She did learn to run.

To leap and cavort.

To fly across the earth,

As no other creature has done,

Before or since.

The dance of life,

An entire world was beginning.

'Ere the rising sun's early light,

Leached from crimson to incorporeal gold.

A reflection, mirror bright and flowing,

Appears in the pools,

Edging Takillikan Glade.

Pearl and silver and black.

Cobalt and violet and starlight.

One foot...lifting.

Two feet...gather.

Three feet...touching.

Four feet...leaping.

The clarion ringing of the Dire wolves' howl,

A symphony renewed.

Lily's Song, a memory fresh,

The tears still shimmering on the ground.

Now at the start of this final dance,

Two courageous hearts, do pound.

In the shadows,

Bordering the mossy edges,

Of the pools, 'neath the trunks,

Of the great, olden trees,

The pack moves, softly as the breath of death.

Of the scent hounds there is no sign.

But the sight hunters,

Have followed Fleetfoot's line.

Now their forces,

With those of the wolves are joined.

Lurking among the heaven reaching heights,

Are the archers of the once great Horde.

Holding ready.

Waiting now.

Creaking of alder,

The song of a bowstring plays,

The reflection takes the first step,

The opening dance,

The symphonies of the world,

Begins to play.

One foot...stretching.

Two feet...gather.

Three feet...springing.

Four feet...reaching.

Aerial dancer of Takillikan Glade

Cloven stride parting with the ground.

The leap of faith,

From the shadows into the frost kissed light.

Stretching long and tight.

Whippet thin, argent bright.

Takillikan Glade,

Magic imbued by the lores,

Gone on,

Now shows its true face.

Reflections within reflections.

A hundred fold.

A thousand more.

Refractions...

Mirroring each motion.

Mimicking each minute action.

Where the forest starts and the ground begins,

Up from down.

Down from up.

Passing forward, only to come back again.

A labyrinth of reflections,

Muted, dappled light.

Aerial dancer of Takillikan Glade,

Soaring out into the pools,

Reflections shining,

Mimics and fragmented rules.

One dancer, but not alone.

A thousand leaping with the Aerial Dancer.

Which is the real?

That is the question begging an answer.

Will the arrow find its mark,

Sinking deep, plunging home?

[Fleetfoot]

Truth of the Unicorn’s Glade

Heart of courage.

One.  Two.  Three.  Four.

Left and right.

About and around.

No whisper except that of the bowstrings' round.

Archer watching...

Waiting for a shot...

But where to aim, where to look?

Which is the path the real Fleetfoot took?

In all directions she does dance.

To the left a fleeting leap.

To the right a taunting prance.

A frustrated howl.

A wild shot, launched.

Singing and zinging,

Through the air.

A howl of pain,

A dark form falling.

From the heart of the glade,

A ghostly voice is calling.

Seeking.

Peeking.

Finding none.

For Eroc knows not,

Who is the real one.

Seeking.

Peeking.

Chase me down.

Reflections smiling.

Fate is closing, baring down.

Seeking. Peeking.

Fleet feet fly.

A thousand images and one true lie.

Between the trees,

Betwixt the ponds.

Stirring the lacy ferns,

The graceful waving of the fronds.

One foot...touching.

Two feet...gather.

Three feet...pressing.

Four feet...leaping.

Aerial dancer of feline grace,

A mocking smile glowing,

Upon Lily's face.

A flash of silver.

A hint of white.

Here and gone.

In and out of sight.

A glittering grin,

A taunting bow.

Arrow nocked,

Launching now.

Another shot glaringly wide.

Another goblin,

Pierced through the heart,

And greying hide.

Into the pool he does plunge.

Among the trees, the others,

The archers, watching...

Wondering. Pondering.

Who is next?

A question in their cunning minds flare.

Why are they even there?

A thousand fold and a thousand more,

Have tried before.

To claim the horn of the Last,

To tack the hide of the Unicorn,

Upon their door.

Each and every hunt,

In blood was ended.

The blood of those,

Who had offended.

They, who hunted the fabled form,

The legend, tense,

The last remaining Unicorn.

Logic dictated they would die,

Fate was waiting,

Like an arrow plunging through an eye.

Now here they stood,

Upon the Unicorn's sacred ground,

In the heart of a glade,

Belonging to the heir of the Elven crown.

A dancer, a rider,

Who knew this place,

Upon this ground had learned to run,

Knew the play of both,

The stars and sun,

All around the Dire Wolves,

Pressed...

By their own shots,

Or by the jaws of the pack,

Fate had led them down this track.

Death was coming swift and fast.

What fools they were to hunt the Last.

Metal flashed among the soaring crowns,

Of these trees,

Of a ten man span,

Fools they be,

Sought refuge in an honorable death,

Knives plunged in,

Bodies came raining down.

Between a rock and a hard place caught,

A means of escape,

Round and about,

There was naught.

So by the hand of the archers,

Themselves,

They took their own lives,

Cursing Eroc and Sacorum,

To an unending hell.

True before their eyes,

Into their souls was etched.

By death they end,

The blazing shame, the burning hate.

So to the pools the wretches,

They do fall.

[Darkkin]

Truth is sometimes the hardest thing of all to face...Well done, Fleet, well done.

[Fleetfoot]

The fate of Eroc, High King of the Goblin Horde and the remaining armies, their fates will soon be determined...(eerie laughter...).  Fleetfoot continues her run.

[Fleetfoot]

King of Legions Slain

By the hand of fate, by the blade of a knife,

Takillikan Glade,

Saw the blood of a thousand fold,

Seeping into the water,

Leaching into the peat.

All about the edges of the glade,

Dire wolves sang,

As the power of the glade,

Of a simple, blinding truth,

Turned an arrow, thwarted a blade.

One foot...touching.

Two feet....gather.

Three feet...leaping.

Four feet...reaching.

A legion slain,

But the High King lingers,

Ruling a faction,

Lifeless and littered,

Across the mirror ponds,

Of Takillikan Glade.

One foot... touching.

Two feet...gather.

Three feet...bounding.

Four feet...reaching.

A rage, unseen since the birth of the world,

...brewing...stewing...storming...

The perfect storm,

So long awaited.

Came crashing down upon the hunted,

Upon the hated.

Fleet feet fly.

Hard and fast and strong.

Bowstring drawn,

A well known, beloved song.

One foot...reaching.

Two feet...leading.

Three feet...gather.

Four feet...leaping.

Eye searching, seeking...

For the smallest sign,

Watching.

The Legions dead,

A High King alone,

No heir apparent surviving,

No one to assume the throne.

A son, by his own hand, slayed.

A mad, mad rage that would not be stayed.

Fleet feet flying,

Reflections a hundred thousand strong.

A brilliant plan twisted about,

Everything gone,

So very wrong.

The Last still lived,

While his Legions died.

He, Eroc, High King of the Goblin Horde,

Would be the one to see,

That damned Unicorn met her just reward.

By his hand,

Or else by none,

To the Gods of Hell, he swore,

It would be done.

From his perch among the stones,

Walling the glade,

Shielding the trees from the bitter ocean winds,

He rose...

The stench of death pressing,

A heady fragrance in his nose.

The bodies of the slain,

Swallowed by the mirrored pools.

Such a waste, these damned weak willed fools.

No one left to serve...

No one left to follow...

There within the shifting, twisting light.

A last chance to get it right.

Sacorum's blood graced the gate,

Of the Ivory Tower...

The Vale was still ring with the fading refrains,

An echoing reminder of Lily's underestimated power.

The truth of his actions,

Began ringing in his head.

His hand, for his blade, was reaching.

His mind believing he should join the ranks,

Of the fallen, of the forgotten,

Of the decaying, of the dead.

By dint of will he stilled his hand.

Forced his mind to focus,

On the pair that still eluded all,

Including his celebrated band.

Hell hound mounted.

Armor glowing.

Fleet feet flying.

Down and away once more.

Eroc, High King of the Goblin Horde,

Waited not a moment longer,

The stride of his beast,

Reaching long and pressing hard,

With each beat of his stone craved heart,

Each massive bound of his demon spawn hound,

His rage spiraled out of control,

Came lashing out and bearing down.

As he sought the proof of his target,

A single line of tracks upon the ground.

[Fleetfoot]

A Gambit Taken

Orange eyes blazing like the molten earth.

To the pools.

To the moss.

He did look.

A cloven stride,

Long and graceful,

A single delicate line,

Among the reflections, hidden by the light.

Was the path of the Last.

She moved like a whisper,

A hush gone before the storm,

But no ghost was she.

Her path could be found,

By those who knew how to see.

Lily, the Elven Princess darke and faire, still held tight.

The slaughter of Eroc's Legions,

A twisted, bloodied sight.

Fleet feet leaping,

A gambit taken.

Takillikan Glade,

Its purpose served,

A fury awakened,

Eroc, in earnest, was hunting now.

Away from the pools,

Away from the trees.

Away.

Fleet feet...reaching.

Chasing.

Racing for the shore.

Away.  Away.

Fleet feet flying down unto the seas.

Hair streaming,

Eyes clouded and dark,

Focused and hard,

No longer dreaming.

Arrow nocked, ready to soar.

Fleet feet...whispering,

Flying coursing ov’r the loam once more.

One foot...reaching.

Two feet...leading.

Three feet...gather.

Four feet...leaping.

Mossy prints pointing the way.

To the sea path,

Upward.  Outward.

Fleet feet away.

Hell hound, nose pressed to the ground.

The scent of death,

The fading refrains,

The breath of the Last,

The merest whisper of sound.

The shifting light,

A cavorting form,

Lily, her sight...

Bright and true,

Takes aim.

Fuel to the fire.

Volley one.

Volley two.

Arrow.  Arrow.

Clean and strong,

Soaring out,

 Fast and hard and long.

A temper to ignite.

A final bait taken.

To the seas Fleetfoot races,

To the Sands of the Forsaken.

Arrows landing swift and true.

To taunt and tease.

Not to maim,

So true has to be Lily's aim.

[Fleetfoot]

What the heck is going on with the spacings? This needs to be fixed...

[Fleetfoot]

Sighting from the Shadows

Bowstring drawn.

Taunt.  Tight.  True.

Dark eyes.

Wide and watchful.

Deep. True. Blue.

Steady now.

Holding hard.

The prey, the hunter

Closing in,

One last step,

A final vital yard.

From the shadows,

Those eyes are watching,

Into sight,

At long last he comes,

Upon a hell hound, mounted,

Flanks lathered, sides heaving,

Chasing down the track.

Eroc, High King of the Horde,

Comes riding.

He knows the touches.

He knows the trace.

Now begins the ending of a race.

Fleet feet holding,

Watching for the helm of gold,

Looking for the eyes,

Fathomless.  Bitter.  Cold.

Stench of the hell beast,

Carries with the wind.

Upon Eroc's swarthy, twisted face,

A lethal, half mad grin.

The scent of blood taints the air.

A reminder that

In love,

In war,

In blind hatred,

Nothing is clear,

Or bright,

And never, ever fair.

Madness riding to the fore.

Sunlight glinting off a helm,

Bronzed and spiked,

Now is the moment,

Now is the time to strike.

Bowstring singing,

A symphony of rage.

Into the breach rides another,

Who at last is come of age.

Her arrow soaring out,

High.  Tight.  True.

Winging down into the glade.

Tracing the path,

A line of tracks,

Which she,

The hunted, the hated,

Fleetfoot made.

A glancing blow,

A perfect ricochet,

Off Eroc's helm rebounds,

A deep, melodious ringing voice,

Into the heart of the vale, sounds.

Eroc, High King of the Slain, roars.

His head and ears,

Dark and bloodied,

With an unaccustomed pain.

Wheeling his hell beast in a circle, hard.

He veers from the ghostly track,

Into the deep shadows seeking the hunter,

She, who is at his back,

This shadowy wraith,

A girl, who until this day,

Appeared as little more than a hidden waif.

With inky hair and dreaming eyes,

She comes alive at the sound,

Of the King's harsh and bloody cry.

[Fleetfoot]

Reflections of Violet

A reflection,

Every bit as strong and real,

As the Aerial dancer,

Fleetfoot, the legend, tense.

As the Elven princess, dark and faire,

Lily, she of shorn and bloodied hair.

She is a Lore,

Glory born,

Ready to ride,

Aiming for the deepest heart,

Of the gathering storm.

Named for the flower,

Retiring.  Quite.  Shy.

It is she, who loosed the arrow,

Let that speaking volley fly.

Violet,

Her dark eyes seeking.

Her shadowed gaze,

Eroc's burning stare is meeting.

A flash of silver,

A flicker of white.

A reflection,

Mirroring, mimicking

The missing sight.

Violet, astride the Herald, holding.

Beneath a coat, gleaming white,

Muscles

Flex and quiver,

A cloven foot shifting left,

A graceful ear twitching right.

Nostrils flared,

A deep breath in,

Primed to run.

One unicorn,

 Disappearing with the moon,

Another,

 Rising with the sun.

Sacorum's blood,

Upon this creature,

No traces to be found,

But a single argent horn,

Upon a wide and noble brow,

The tracks raced down, away,

How is she returning now?

Eroc's mind,

Against the impossibility reels.

To the Herald's side Violet sets,

Dainty, booted heels.

The Dancer Scarred

Needs no urging,

Out of the shadows,

The heart of the dizzying vale,

His massive stride striking out,

His feet catching,

Flinging.  Surging.

One foot...planting.

Two feet...gather.

Three feet...pressing.

Four feet...bounding.

No feet...touching.

Stretching long and tight and lithe.

Moving with the grace of a hunting cat,

The most skilled and lethal thief.

Even death on the wings of an owl,

Possesses enough speed bring,

He, the Dancer Scarred, down,

All that remains for Eroc, High King, befuddled,

Is to take aim,

Follow this pair, upon this course,

Twisting 'round.

Out of darkness, into the light,

Dappling the pools,

And blinding the eyes,

The Herald's path traces,

Ov'r the moss, kissing the stones,

Onto the pools,

A mighty, cloven stride goes.

As firm as ice,

Clear as glass,

Fleet feet fly,

Seeming to chase the Last.

Upon the waters,

No ripples show,

On and on and on,

Rides Violet,

Upon the Herald,

Gleaming coat,

An echo of snow.

[Fleetfoot]

Path of the Dancer Scarred

Fleet feet springing,

Flinging peat, high,

Ears twitching left,

Cloven stride,

Bearing right.

One foot...touching.

Two feet...gather.

Three feet...pressing.

Four feet...leaping.

No feet....touching.

A lithe, sleek form,

Silvered mane whipping,

Passed Eroc is dashing.

Over a slim shoulder, violet eyes,

Gleaming and flashing.

At the look of awed hatred,

Upon the Goblin King's,

Cunning twist of a face.

Heels, brutally dug into the sides of his heaving beast,

The hell hound,

Who upon the dead had begun to feast.

Whipping up and whirling 'round.

Muzzle bloodied,

Entrails, half chewed,

 Spatter across the ground.

The hell hound rallies,

Rushing after the prey,

That moves without a sound.

Across the pools,

Upon the ponds,

In and out,

 Of the dappled light,

Between the gently dancing  fronds.

Raced the Dancer Scarred,

Flashing in and out of sight.

Across the water,

Those languid pools,

He ran,

Reaching deep, each stride,

A reflection of an unknown might.

Upon his back,

Light as the down of a dove,

Clung Violet,

Flexing.  Floating,

So fluid and soft,

Two seemed to merge into one,

Living, breathing art.

But the time for beauty,

For grace and gentle times,

Was done.

Now a race for life,

Had begun.

Eroc stared in horror,

Of the abject sort,

As by him,

Before him,

In an arching leap,

Bound the last of a kind,

The fabled.

The hunted.

The hated.

The bloody, fleeing Unicorn.

Upon it back,

A small form clung,

A bow and quiver,

Voicing a whispered creak,

A muffled clatter and clack.

Around her face,

Tattered curls were whipping,

As his hell beast,

At a goblin carcass began ripping.

Violet eyes,

Gleaming and mocking.

Another arrow,

Light and fletched,

Another taunt,

To her bowstring,

She began nocking.

That was it.

Damn them all to hell.

His Horde.  His Heir.

And now his pride,

As well.

His blade, his bow,

His mighty, heaving hound,

By one and all,

Eroc, High King of the Horde, slain,

Would see them fall.

He cursed his wrath to the skies,

Swore to see this pair,

Their life blood seeping into the unforgiving ground.

Before the sun,

Impaled by the mountains,

Bled and died,

His hell hound would be feasting,

On that wretched rider's hide.

So into the pools,

Across the bodies,

Lives taken by the voice of truth,

Eroc let his hell hound run.

No tears were shed,

As the hell beast's paws,

Bound of the upturned face of his,

Eroc's only son.

[Fleetfoot]

The Truth of War

Fleet feet swallowing ground,

Consuming the way.

The blood of the slain fading,

Failing with the dying day.

On the far side of the cliffs,

From the gorges,

The fjords and waterways,

A mighty chorus rising,

The unmistakable ebb and flow,

Of a battle's horrendous symphonic sound.

To the beaches by elven might,

The remains of the Horde was driven.

The sea, dark and raging, upon the left,

An endless stretch of cobalt death.

Rising high and jagged and rough,

Hemming in the mass from the right,

Were the Lore Cliffs,

Cleaving the sky to a staggering height.

The passage blocked nowhere to turn,

Nowhere to run,

There upon the stony shore the battle,

Should have ended, been over and done.

The Elven Legion riding out strong and hard,

Drew swords and mounted a charge.

Into the heart of the Horde,

They rushed,

Gouging left and cleaving right.

Arms and ears flying hither and yon.

A countless number of minions,

Quickly dispatched to the great beyond.

Blood in the water.

Blood in the air.

All around war raging.

A land awash with fear,

Rank with growing despair.

For Lily and Fleetfoot,

Were among the missing,

Listed.

Such was the gorgy, angry truth of war.

Hope is taken,

Wrenched away in a tide of blood.

No glory to be found.

Just pain and death,

Hovering close,

As all around,

Heroes, slain, crumple...

Lifeless upon the ground.

Glory and honour...

A dammed blind song these fools sing.

The truth, before their eyes, an unseen thing.

Blood and hell.

A simple truth to some.

A way of life to one and all.

No hope shall remain,

No child smile,

No hero attempt to rise and crawl.

So on to the death the blind horde wages,

A war of blades,

Of blood and sages.

A battle which will scar the land.

Leave it raw for countless ages.

[Fleetfoot]

A Secret in the Dark

A battle cry rising,

One destine to echo down the ages.

For Eroc, High King, of a slaughtered Horde,

Though blind with rage,

His caution gone,

Has laid a trap,

Should he happen to become a pawn.

There in the deep, deep places of the world,

There is a secret kept,

Against which countless armies have been hurled.

To no avail, but death and doom.

With the ring, echoing song,

Of the Dragon Horn,

Silver cast.

Wakes an army,

Made of stone,

In clay and iron, clad.

The tidings with this legion rising,

Every fear and emotion known to man,

But that which is glad.

For carved in secret,

Beneath the hidden Lores,

Is a labyrinth,

A warren of catacombs,

Tombs and doors.

Down the passages to the heart of the world,

Where the pulse of magic flows,

A molten lake of magma,

Bubbles and simmers and glows.

On the far shore of this molten sea,

Is the place,

Where in a battle great,

This mighty, lost faction fell.

To the center of the earth.

To the heart of the world.

Into a crevasse, by dragon talons torn,

Plunged Tokoli's army.

The Gollums of Komm.

Found by the dwarves, who into the bedrock,

Delved too deep.

Forever cursed to an endless sleep.

Tokoli and his army,

By a Dragon's Oath,

Were sworn to keep.

Banished to the deepest black,

Never to the sun bright surface,

Again were they to be summoned back.

But time,

Both a healer and a foe,

A dwarf,

One of those who,

Of Tokoli, knew.

By goblin hand, was a captive,

Taken.

To Eroc, High King of the Horde,

This ancient dwarf was brought,

By his brothers, his people,

To the depths of the tunnels,

His life forgotten, forsaken.

[Fleetfoot]

The Betrayal of Helm of Daveen

Like so many,

It was death and the unknown beyond,

Above all else he feared.

The brutality of the Goblins' High King,

Was known the whole world over.

But so was his cunning, bright mind.

An ace in the hole.

A power unseen until it was crushing one's very bones,

Was of a great and worthy price

To a ruler of determination,

He, Eroc, Crowned.

So for his life,

Helm of Daveen,

Aged seventeen centuries, eight decades past, and seven years fading.

Struck a deal with a tyrant,

He, who sought to fell,

The light and hope of all.

Eroc, High King Crowned.

The knowledge of the Gollums,

That Legion Lost,

Of Tokoli.

Helm did tell.

To the shore of the burning lake,

He brought them.

And upon that shore,

His fear took root.

Helm, his faith, betrayed.

As into his chest, slicing clean,

Was the muted glow of a goblin blade.

To the stones Helm fell.

His final act,

His last breath, a living hell.

To the bedrock.

Granite. Basalt. Shale. Slate.

The goblin miners set their tools.

From the heart of the world,

From the molten core,

They began to dig.

Heading east to the shore of the Lores,

To the caves claimed by the shifters, fading.

For it was written,

Upon a page, long crumbled to dust

That Dragon's Oath,

Which held Tokoli's army bound,

Could only be broken, when in the deep,

The Horn of the Lores,

Did sound.

It was a task that took an aeon's passing to complete.

But time...

The healer and the foe,

From all others this knowledge took.

Returning it to the dust,

With the pages of the book.

[Fleetfoot]

Tunnels to Tokoli

Time...

The Sands through the Hourglass poured.

Sand pressed down becoming stone.

Flesh stripped away,

Leaving stark white bone.

A spirit...

Broken and forgotten lingered in the dark.

For Helm there was no hope,

No burning spark,

To light the way.

A unicorn's age.

Then two, then three.

Passed.

The Lores and Legends fading.

One by one,

Until Fleetheart fell,

Leaving Fleetfoot the Last.

And beneath the caves,

The warrens, tombs, and tunnels spread.

Eroc, the Goblin High,

Drove his Horde to the bone.

Chipping, sawing, and whittling down the stone.

Until the Wards were at long last reached.

Down through the passages came the songs of the beach.

While the Horde toiled in the maze.

Eroc, High King of the Dark,

Forged an alliance,

With he, who held the stolen horn,

Of she, Fleetheart, the slain Unicorn.

Into Sacorum's Hammer,

With iron, bronze, and blood,

Did the wily Goblin,

Bind that power.

Blinding the Eyes of the Ivory Tower.

Now with the allegiance of an army, great...

Eroc, High and Ancient King of the Dark

From the warrens summoned the Horde.

Up from the deep bowels of the world,

They poured.

Armed with blades and shields broad,

They marched out to greet the bloody dawn.

To every land,

To each far flung place,

They spread...

A plague of evil.

In their wake leaving thousands dead.

Green withered.

The forests burned.

Axe and blade and gory hand.

Vale and glen.

Mile by mile they destroyed the land.