Post by Aidan Furey on Dec 23, 2006 1:58:38 GMT -5
Lord of the Lonely Castle, On the Sorrowful Mountain.
The happiness of a ray of light cannot be measured. The distance between the Sun could be measured. But, the impact it has on a being could never be comprehended by even the most well travelled of Scribe, Scientist, or Philosopher. The essence.. the aroma of flowers is another phenomenon that cannot be explained. The way a rose could cheer up a person, is something that could be considered magic on this Earth.
The Sun Doth not shine, for he who lives atop the Sorrowful Mountain.. The Lord Who lives in that Lonely castle of that shire, hath not seen the brightness of the sun but... The bellowing voice of a thunder cloud and the wicked cackling of lightening, He who lives there has bore the brunt of an arrow that would appear to be more Volital then a barbed Crossbow Bolt.
The Sun that was, was a maiden... As ruthless as a windswept beach, kissed with a frosty morning. And as unforgiving as a northern sea, as cunning as an icy current. The blackness of the drear castle, the moss that grew on the castle walls, the cold damp hay... This wasn't always so. There once was dry and warm places in the catacombs that lay under the castle. There once was a warm being inside the castle that brough peace and rest into the life of the now driven mad Lord. To Most peasants the Lord was insane but... If they took a second look they would see that he was not insane but... That he was heartbroken.
They would see that the Lord had suffered the most poisonous wound of them all... a pierced heart. In His veins pumps purple blood, he no longer slept without seeing her face, it was tatooed on his dream. When the maiden was dwelling inside the castle, she showed the Lord what he was missing.. Through his conquests of bloodthirsty raiding and campaigns... His pillaging days were over as she touched him that first time. The Once wild, and eager to pull the very blade that lay at his side that sits collecting dust, and has rust clinging to it. That very blade, was laid to rest... For the maiden was far to rare and had captivated him, that he could not bear to do the un-thinkable to her.
The once renowned warrior was forgotten and the once proud ruler was reduced into rubble. For what is in a kiss? The Same magic that lies in the Rays of the sun and the same magic that lies in the Aroma of a flower. The Lords armory was not saved from the touch of the beauty that the maiden brought. The Weapons were put in their places the plants were set inplace, the parchment of paintings lay on the forge, that has been long snuffed out. The wilted herbs and remedies still lay ancient and dry on the walls of pantry that lay in the Lord's Kitchen.
The kiss she gave him, bewitched him and the gift she brought to his life was ever-changing, never ceasing to amaze.. But, then the Lord Treated her like a maiden and like she had wings. The maiden felt the freedom he gave her and she took it. Going to the boundries of the castle.. She touched the sky and the sea.
A prince of lands of rich and gold came to take her away.. And away he did take her. The Sun was taken from the Lord, the water, the flower of his life was taken... He was there betrothed to nothing but a memory... No Longer was she there, endlessly he said..Winter came.. everchanging the seasons came, and the same dark drear and the same screams echoed insanity ringing into the castle barbican, and the gate house.
The bells doth not toll on Sundays because the only three people aside from the lord that lives inside the walls are two monks and an old Guardsmen that is well beyond his years. The two monks remained as care-takers of the Lord himself, and the Guardsmen swore that he would protect is sires family until the Line had evermore died out.
Locked into this despair, the Lord turned away his chance at happiness in the form of an ancient wise-woman who was not, a fairy er some fairy tales tell of but, this is not a fairy tale, this is close to fact then it is to fiction. She believed that if he would not seek her, that he would be locked in this dreary nightmare for an eternity. And so the shunment and the curse fell upon the castle and its keeper.
He was looked at as a beast, he was looked at as a monster. The Castle began to become un-sightly, well beyond taken care of the growth of thorns and black rose bushes grew around the castle walls and on the paths leading into the castle. Ravens nested, Eagles and Hawks perched on the highest towers. Wolves mourned the once proud kingdom, and the once proud lord that would call to them and care for them with the left overs of his kill.
And then there was the statue in the moseleum that was made out of black quarts. It was of his maiden for she seemed to be dead to him. He had not forseen her coming nor her depature but... He wonders the halls, screaming insanity and restlessness...
And so this unhappy fairy tale ends...
The happiness of a ray of light cannot be measured. The distance between the Sun could be measured. But, the impact it has on a being could never be comprehended by even the most well travelled of Scribe, Scientist, or Philosopher. The essence.. the aroma of flowers is another phenomenon that cannot be explained. The way a rose could cheer up a person, is something that could be considered magic on this Earth.
The Sun Doth not shine, for he who lives atop the Sorrowful Mountain.. The Lord Who lives in that Lonely castle of that shire, hath not seen the brightness of the sun but... The bellowing voice of a thunder cloud and the wicked cackling of lightening, He who lives there has bore the brunt of an arrow that would appear to be more Volital then a barbed Crossbow Bolt.
The Sun that was, was a maiden... As ruthless as a windswept beach, kissed with a frosty morning. And as unforgiving as a northern sea, as cunning as an icy current. The blackness of the drear castle, the moss that grew on the castle walls, the cold damp hay... This wasn't always so. There once was dry and warm places in the catacombs that lay under the castle. There once was a warm being inside the castle that brough peace and rest into the life of the now driven mad Lord. To Most peasants the Lord was insane but... If they took a second look they would see that he was not insane but... That he was heartbroken.
They would see that the Lord had suffered the most poisonous wound of them all... a pierced heart. In His veins pumps purple blood, he no longer slept without seeing her face, it was tatooed on his dream. When the maiden was dwelling inside the castle, she showed the Lord what he was missing.. Through his conquests of bloodthirsty raiding and campaigns... His pillaging days were over as she touched him that first time. The Once wild, and eager to pull the very blade that lay at his side that sits collecting dust, and has rust clinging to it. That very blade, was laid to rest... For the maiden was far to rare and had captivated him, that he could not bear to do the un-thinkable to her.
The once renowned warrior was forgotten and the once proud ruler was reduced into rubble. For what is in a kiss? The Same magic that lies in the Rays of the sun and the same magic that lies in the Aroma of a flower. The Lords armory was not saved from the touch of the beauty that the maiden brought. The Weapons were put in their places the plants were set inplace, the parchment of paintings lay on the forge, that has been long snuffed out. The wilted herbs and remedies still lay ancient and dry on the walls of pantry that lay in the Lord's Kitchen.
The kiss she gave him, bewitched him and the gift she brought to his life was ever-changing, never ceasing to amaze.. But, then the Lord Treated her like a maiden and like she had wings. The maiden felt the freedom he gave her and she took it. Going to the boundries of the castle.. She touched the sky and the sea.
A prince of lands of rich and gold came to take her away.. And away he did take her. The Sun was taken from the Lord, the water, the flower of his life was taken... He was there betrothed to nothing but a memory... No Longer was she there, endlessly he said..Winter came.. everchanging the seasons came, and the same dark drear and the same screams echoed insanity ringing into the castle barbican, and the gate house.
The bells doth not toll on Sundays because the only three people aside from the lord that lives inside the walls are two monks and an old Guardsmen that is well beyond his years. The two monks remained as care-takers of the Lord himself, and the Guardsmen swore that he would protect is sires family until the Line had evermore died out.
Locked into this despair, the Lord turned away his chance at happiness in the form of an ancient wise-woman who was not, a fairy er some fairy tales tell of but, this is not a fairy tale, this is close to fact then it is to fiction. She believed that if he would not seek her, that he would be locked in this dreary nightmare for an eternity. And so the shunment and the curse fell upon the castle and its keeper.
He was looked at as a beast, he was looked at as a monster. The Castle began to become un-sightly, well beyond taken care of the growth of thorns and black rose bushes grew around the castle walls and on the paths leading into the castle. Ravens nested, Eagles and Hawks perched on the highest towers. Wolves mourned the once proud kingdom, and the once proud lord that would call to them and care for them with the left overs of his kill.
And then there was the statue in the moseleum that was made out of black quarts. It was of his maiden for she seemed to be dead to him. He had not forseen her coming nor her depature but... He wonders the halls, screaming insanity and restlessness...
And so this unhappy fairy tale ends...
