The Minstrel of Gor

[Callistus 988]

 

 

”Valtr ine treth. . the blood moon weeps upon the dying, eyeless vicar. Beware the anguished light.”

 

 

The Minstrel of Gor

That Trod on Foure

---

 

 

Shrieking out a song of death, the winds trembled, shook, and a man there stood, fiery, all foul in his dread eyes.

 

Hollow marked, for the brands beneath the eyes were that of weariness, and his lip was parched. For he starved, but not of mere sustenance, of the common man, but he strived in his starve, for flesh to tiredly carve.

 

His hands came fore to rise, in preach to the heavenly skies; heavens, he cries, and prayers he wearily tries.

But the laments of worthless vermin fall unheard, villy, like the fate of the wingless, dying bird.

 

The Minstrel of Gor was no man, that men would count amongst their own, but no beast either, that beasts thought kin of their blood and bone.

 

He was a ridiculous thing, drabbed in that frivolous fell of wulf, and the men as of old curse his name at every step; as if his very guts they loathed.

 

He resented so their grit, deep in that lonesome pit, and at his own, ragged skin he clawed, tore, even rent with hatred; hollering to the old dark, “Mercy! This damned curse thee hath lent here, by all saints I beseech thee; Mercy, mercy and mine plague, absolve me,!” but he pled, for respite was all he wanted, and yet his wish remaint ungranted, deep in that lonesome pit, flogging in a mad, crazed, horrid fit, stunted.

 

And the anguish never ended, and the pained, wronged flesh still mended, and the minstrel there lamented; but the God of silence pretended.

The night hence came and soon, he saith, might the sun wane; in the moonlight, dancing, relished the beast in rain, and thus revealed his black, pesterous stain.

 

Indeed, for a wolf in black ghastly guise he became, and who into the night thus rode in fell mane, bounding, wailing, slavering in shame.

 

Depravedly the wolf beset a poor herding farmer, in whose flesh he did wolfishly gloat, and feast, when suddenly his pain went unwrought. 

Mercy, the monster thought, and clasped the cross from at the dead man’s throat; Mercy, to me God has brought. . .

 

The cursed, and yet blessed minstrel of Gor wished for more, and more blood he did monstrously pour. For God of all afforded him a chance, and it danced in pale, pale gore.