A born a day of rags and fray, I smelled a hearth in th’ air — what smells a hearth? why, dogs of course! and be a dog, I dare. Such smoke led south ‘round weeping wastes, and up past yonder hill — and dancing in the blaze so chaste
be the Maid of Ruby Rill!
She twirled her skirts and called my name, and long a gasp I sighed — be she a nymph? a siren wraith? for hooked I was inside. Honeyed words she kissed my way, and fierce I felt a thrill — and what possessed me then to pray for the Maid of Ruby Rill?
Sweet as sour-grass her song; warm as winter her grin — but what of flames? did not she blaze? how white still shone her skin! Then deep within my core I yearned
and leapt to touch her still — but crimson bit my hand and burned my dear Maid of Ruby Rill.
Blackness bled into her eyes, serpentine her smile curled — what form be this? a trick? a guise? taunting, her tail unfurled. Shocked my heart and swiped my breath, I yelped a plea so shrill — “Sweet lady, now be not my death!” to the Maid of Ruby Rill.
A knee I took to hold her gaze, and hands I pressed in prayer — “what sin is mine? is craving a crime? speak now or I’ll despair!”
With twisted lips she smirked in ire,
and whispered words of ill —
“Damned are you to tend my fire
here in Ruby Rill!”
A born a day of rags and fray, I sold my heart to her — what sells a heart? why, slaves of course! and slave I was, assured.
Of years nothing but dust remains, but her hearth dances still — for I have fed and fueled the flames of the Maid of Ruby Rill.
I hope everyone had a lovely Christmas and holiday season! If you don’t celebrate Christmas, then hopefully it was a lovely time nonetheless. I haven’t posted anything for two whole weeks (gasp! I know!), but am finally getting back into the swing of things. Today I have for you a poem (actually, a song) that was written for my current fantasy series. I originally approached it with every intention of writing a silly, carefree tavern song — but it quickly developed a darker, more serious tone (as so many of my poems do).
In obsidian nights when the rain lashes cold, the wanderer weeps through the land.
All hear his plight, as the twilight grows old; in tempest, how can he withstand?
First come the stars, like eyes in the sky, looking down on the traveler’s trail. Sanguine and simple, they smile in surprise, and gentle they breathe on the gale.
Then wakens the moon, veiled in velvet and light and his face chases shadows away. Mystic, his guidance leads the stray through the blight, ’round rivals and out of the gray.
In silence, the sun overlooks her domain, and sees the roamer wet and cold. Sagely, she spreads her arms ‘cross the plains, to embrace and warm him in gold.
In amber morrow,
when the weather has waned,
the wanderer sings to the skies.
None hear his sorrow,
for the Three banished pain,
and in joy, he strikes his reprise.
This is a song written for my work-in-progress. I really enjoy song-writing (especially when it’s for fantasy fiction), and find that it’s helpful in world-building and culture-creating. I also like to actually write the music for my songs; most of the time I use medieval styles, intervals, and instruments to establish its melody and harmony.
It’s probably difficult to understand the overall message of this song when taken out of context (though you can probably interpret it in multiple ways). Basically, the realm that my w.i.p. takes place in worships three fictional gods who take the form of the sun, moon, and stars. This would be a hymn sung in the Temple or by traveling minstrels.
We can paint a field brilliant red,
streaked in tar and bile and bits,
but when the sky tears itself to shreds
and releases its fury in torrents and fits-
the evidence is drained.
When it rains.
We can ripen our quarrels for years on end
with hot irons and sharpening stones,
but it’ll all mean nothing when the floods descend
to quench our fury with thunderous moans-
there’s nothing more to show.