A poem featuring the Denizens of the DarkRoom
Ode to the Darkroom Dwellers
Within the realm of Hammerhelm there is a special place
Whose deep shadows hide from sight, all those of every race
Orcs and trolls, even Elves, (those who have forsaken light.)
Dwell in this hidden Darkroom and are welded to the night.
Morbid is the ink of fate, the darkness of his soul,
dips its pen in vitriol black, and with it burns a hole,
In parchment made from halfling skin, torn from living bones.
He writes in dark satanic prose, as his craft he hones.
Katsa's raven, matt black hair is locked in dreads of night,
Bran's war darkened wing of death, which gives all others fright,
is comforting her as she sits, watching out the door,
For some wayward fool who thinks “The darkroom is a bore.”
Her siren voice calls out from the fetid, sultry, gloom."
"Welcome stranger to the gloom. (and your bloody doom)
Please use this hinge-ed seat, beside this new grinder here
If you stay long enough, then sausages will appear"
Norry has a gloomy corner wherein he sits and broods
Thinking of all the Orcs he's killed and how they made good foods
Their skulls became nice drinking bowls to fill with flowing mead
The profits made from this bloody trade are his only creed.
Cademe from her plush, cushioned seat by the roaring fire
Has many secret, potions Dark in her pouch for hire
Fail to pay the full sacrifice, as agreed in blood
And you will find your sorry self as her familiars food
Eyestar is a pretty one who flits on silent wings,
She holds her tongue in silence white, and never eats a thing.
But underneath that hidden mask; a torturous facade,
Her fangs are sharp - her claws they gnash! at Norry's handsome bod.
A passion of the fates, inside these gates
The shadows are there, through darkened halls, beware…
They watch us fall, welcoming any, and all.
Deep within this midnight lair, call it home, if only you dare.
CeruleanSon doth venture there from time to time
For in the Dark Room he can find ingredients sublime
To use in potent potables, or for sav'ry spice
That makes his E.H. dishes especially nice!
Eliot has a golden tongue, of which he likes to brag,
His skills are sharp, his wit - intense! He's got it in the bag.
But late at night when all is dark, he believes the fiends are kinder,
He creeps across the Darkroom floor, and Kat chucks him in the grinder!
When deepening sundown decends every distant hill,
And wayward, wailing winds fly where they will,
Fast cometh the dusk ere the evening flies,
Ore dull, pocked moon, treading fast the skies.
So cometh the night donning her darkened cape,
Quickly bringing naught to all but jetted scape.
Ahh, then cometh the hour from Darken Room most vexing,
Impish, demonic eyes awake, ceasing their daily resting.
Then, what mischievous forms flitter 'bout the devilish place,
And what grim shades alight the grounds with earnest grace--
Diabolical souls claiming ne'er to've stained nor sinned;
Frolicking imps flashing to attend to their dark leige lady, Alexia Wynd.
Our Darkness is much more than simply the absence of light
It is the murky medium in which our Darklings fight
With razor wit, discerning eye and snappy repartee
They make each other LOL, a ticklish way to flay.
If even for a minute, you thought we could be tamed
Listen to our ode of dark, and know we feel the same
Claws, and fangs of razor sharp, you should listen to me
The darkness pulls you in, and it'll never set you free
Take a bow one and all
gather close before the fall
As the waning moon alight scatters visions from the light
Come together to the call
Bravo et al.