Black River

Take care on the road?

My eyes and ears,

are ever wary

of that scary serpent,

the perceived cruelty

of it’s nature,

breeds fears

that the years

have not spent;

and cannot erode.

It is said

all these snakes

lead to Rome,

but you are still dead,

and I cannot go home.


Beware the Barrows!

Beware the barrows!
Be wary of the Wight,
The Banshee, oh how she,
Wails in the night!
Fear is nectar to the Specter,
Such tears of terror, shed,
The spirits here are restless,
Leave well alone, the dead!

Leave well alone, the dead!
Avoid the Ghost and Ghouls,
No treasure is worth,
Damnation, fools!
Animated remains will attack,
With ghostly swords and arrows,
Flee! Be gone! Go back!
Beware of the barrows!

Appendix for those who enjoy traveling in Cyralost with me:

The Barrows

In the North-West of Tarkus, west of the imperial palace, lies an immense series of small hills, all hallowed out to hold the remains of the realm’s finest, the champions, heroes and anyone rich or famous enough to have bought or earned a place there.
The Barrows is a network of man (and Dwarf) –made caves and cairns, tombs and burial mounds, ranging from simple piles of rock and stone to elaborate monuments, sarcophagi and mausoleums. This necropolis sports evidence of every known faith in Cyralost and no tradition goes unobserved (if only the world’s inhabitants could live in the same harmony in which they die).
There is a well armed guard station that houses a delegation of imperial soldiers that diligently patrol the area and execute would-be grave robbers. The guard post was positioned following the raid that desecrated the burial ground of Bryn Battlehammer, a hero, long deceased. Bryn’s remains and belongings were all taken but many still visit to pay their respects (and there are many curious ‘tourists’).
Many of the barrows are said to be haunted, rumors and ghost stories involving mummified remains becoming animated, walking skeleton warriors, restless spirits, Banshees and Wights (and all manner of undead) believed to be in residence, though the guards are vague in their accounts of such; usually deflecting this kind of conversation but encouraging enough belief to deter visitors at night.
Who knows…?

A Darkness In The Spirit

Do you remember me? Do you know my middle name?
It is I that is responsible for you hating, I am to blame,
I am the lost boy they laugh at, the bottle of destruction by my side,
You said you would save me, that you’d hold on to me, I guess you lied.
I don’t sleep until I pass out, the ghost of a whisper, the shadow of a kiss,
Bad dreams, it is a fitful rest, I cry in the night over memories of those I miss,
The darkness, no comfort, but at least no one can see,
The tears, the heartache, the haunting; the missing parts of me.
The silence is stupid, a moronic sound of the night,
There are things that I would ask of Jesus but he loves only the light,
Frustrations fuelled by arseholes and I really miss my friend,
Frosted flowers, a gift left by her grave, nothing but pain in the end.


Effort number two for Sreejit Poole’s Dungeon Prompt: Chaos