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A colloection of Poetry/Stories about the adventures of a fantasy group. |
| In this I'm trying to compose a series of tales in a poetry format. Most likely non-rhyming though. As an avid roleplayer I'm using the adventures we had at our home table as the material, so it's not completely original. the background is taken from the Pathfinder game world. |
| Hear a tale of the sunburnt steppes: Life growing only in secluded places, carawans carving paths and bandits carving blood. Our heroes aren't great, just simple men; no nobility, no fame. Travelling over land, for just food and rest, not much coin to be earned. But finally there's a place, with much anger and strife, great wealth to be gained. But still you don't know them, not a single one of three, now I'll tell you all. First of them s' the Halfling, no more then tree feet tall, but brave, some say insane, who knows what be true. For he's a lonely warrior, with just a crossbow and a stare, No wonder all the others, don't dare to come near. But his comrades are no different, one from far away. Who knows what he'll do? With his weird bent sharp sword and his dreaded honor stance? A last one to please the spirits, of grass and tree. Calm the weather and beg the gods, for our safety. Three might not sound much, many more there were, guarding lifeblood with their arms. These three though, had a special mission. To get the caravans a place, to rest and trade, to stay safe. An old ruin they had maps of, razed by the Gnolls, that dreaded two-legged Hyena kin, a long time ago. |
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