The last of the songs of Clivesdale. (See SagaOfClivesdale) To say nothing of the second, third, or Nth to last songs . . .

DISCLAIMER: This song is in-character; any misconceptions of a character's disposition, personality, or motives are Belman's fault--not mine. With that said, enjoy, and blame me for any mistakes made in translation. --WillShipley

 Sing the stories before the fire;
 Tales of heroes who guard the land
 With their swords that shine like silver,
 Held by strong, so-certain hands.
 They have rode through fields of twilight,
 They have challenged snow and rain,
 They have ventured into shadow’s soul
 And, in turn, returned again.
 Legends rise along their passing,
 Flaring signs to mark their way;
 Then they come to end their journeys,
 And the fire dissolves to gray.

 Hear the patter of the Trickster,
 See the sparkle within her eyes
 With her voice so calm, assuring
 And her motives a surprise.
 She has gone to seek adventure
 Fearing only the path she’ll find;
 She has struggled in her darkest hours
 To invoke an open mind . . .
 May she fly in boundless patterns
 As no stone could e’er contain:
 She has come to end her journeys,
 And she’s evermore free from pain.

 Bright the mettle of the Soldier
 --Sword and armor, returned from war--
 In his heart a deep-set longing
 For the road that he trode before;
 Did he seek some truth, or beauty?
 Would he cherish gold or fame?
 Did he simply see a time in need
 To receive his sword of flame?
 One last blow to claim his story
 Even as he fell to bleed . . .
 He has come to end his journeys
 And we’ll cherish his name indeed. 

 Now behold the bold Apprentice
 With a wit that brings him to grief;
 At his feet, a fleet familiar,
 A confection in his teeth.
 Such a lonely road he’s wandered
 Seeking secrets, the oracle’s fire;
 Burning in his eyes, the hungry light
 Of the scholar’s broad desires.
 Brighter still that sudden blazing
 Where the tragic Truth he learned:
 You may come to end your journeys
 ‘fore your passage in full is earned . . . 

 Where’s the home to greet the Shaman
 When he carries the spark of his tribe?
 Though the life he loves is ashen
 In his faith he still confides;
 Now a different weight he shoulders
 --different people to comfort and heal—
 Though the words they change in foreign lands
 It’s the same, the pain they feel . . .
 Saving lives in countless calling
 With no thought to spare his own:
 He has come to end his journeys,
 May his spirit at last be home.

 Simple phrases mark the Yeoman,
 As it’s certain, the manner he speaks: 
 With the string drawn back to shoulder
 And the fletching against his cheek.	
 But a simple world he cherished
 ‘Till companions hurried him fast
 From his simple life, his simple love,
 And the pleasures of his past.
 When it comes, the rising shadow
 May devour the gentle rose:
 You have come to end your journeys
 On a road that you never chose.

 Feel the power fill the Vessel,
 Watch it change him in darkened days;
 In his grip a staff of legend,
 Borne along his focused gaze.
 At the helm he stands, a beacon,
 Through the stormy passage, a light
 By the ringing weight of Prophecy
 And the force of Order’s might:
 Stroke for stroke, he’s cold and broken,
 Oh, how precious his sacrifice:
 For he knew his end of journeys,
 Fully willing to pay his price.

 Keener senses speed the Huntress,
 Swift her shadow, fleet as the wind;
 With a mind inclined to shaping,
 As she courted double-kin.
 Guarding well her stern enigmas,
 Still, a warmer purpose she found:
 Tracing through the wilds, the wood and fen
 To ensure us safe and sound:
 But her trail is cold and shrouded
 And her Shadow has lost his hue . . .
 She has come to end her journeys,
 Now the quarry of those she knew.

 Every song must have a coda,
 Every story, it borders the night
 ‘Till the fire has burned to embers
 In the gleam of dawning light.
 Now reborn, the land is waking
 And enchanted’s the world they saved;
 By their hands and hearts is hope alive,
 Though they’re resting through its days.
 Kin and friends, I’ll sing their stories
 For without them, the night is cold:
 Let the fire leap in answer
 To recall the days of old . . .
 They have come to end their journeys,
 But forever their tales . . . be told.

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Last edited March 12, 2003 18:47 (diff)