The Sturmholm Folio

[Erilobar 138]

The Sturmholm Folio

The works of Vorloin Baruch

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Vorloin Baruch, shortly after the Athera Expedition

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Vorloin Baruch, practicing a stage-play

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With the recent death of poet Vorloin Baruch, it has been requested by his will that his folio be published to the world at large. All that follows is the work of poet, who used the pen-name of Vorloin Sturmholm

 

Editor’s note: For some reason, all of Mr Baruch’s writings refer to himself as ‘Vorion’, instead of ‘Vorloin’. Regardless of whatever caused this error, it has been corrected.

 

‘Almost all of these poems follow iambic pentameter, and most of them also are sonnets, with three rhyming quatrains and one couplet. Their themes range from loss and death, to love and life. May they strike your hearts, as they struck at least a couple’ - V. Baruch

((Music:))

Spoiler

 

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O Father

O Father, years have passed since fall of void, 
Yet I am left to sit and weep in prayer 
In days of freedom, Grief I have enjoyed 
Not, for that was the gift you chose to bear.

 

O father, son of the herons marine 
Will you still love me as you once did then? 
To be a stouter son of meager means 
Or born a lesser prince of greater men?

 

O father, torn from life, curse me now, 
words born from an acid, venomous tongue 
Will far outstip those that no longer vow 
To those whom once you genty, softly sung.

 

They say the blood of covenant should wear 
Pains fierce; yet still I weep for water's share

 

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The Good Men

I wonder, where have all the good men gone?
I saw them ride unto the setting sun,
One which they would never again see dawn,
Fighting a battle that is still not won.

 

I ask you, where do all the great kings lie?
It is under a pile of ash and ruin
Deathless since they were forced to cast the die,
They lie, resting beside their royal kin.

 

I pray you, where do all the lost souls go?
For we see them no more, eternally
They lie, lost in silver linings of snow.
Lost to wisps of time, waiting, merrily.

 

We wait for when the time should finally bend
To meet again at last: all the good men

 

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Katharina’s Song

If only the swans were as fair as I,
They could shatter the moon with their beauty,
They could ensnare the mighty lords on high,
They could make Kingsguard flee from duty,
If only the swans were as fair as I.

 

If only the autumn leaves had my grace, 
They’d flutter as if dancers on a stage, 
They’d rustle as if they’d no other place, 
They'd read far more than any written page, 
If only the autumn leaves had my grace. 

 

If only the stormcrows could sing like me, 
They would enchant the creatures of the grove, 
They would lure sailors, like sirens on the sea, 
They would be diamond to all those who rove, 
If only the stormcrows could sing like me.

 

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The Sunset

I passed through mists, and peered beyond the veil 
To see thee, at least, what seemed to be. 
Towards the earth the sun had set her sail, 
And her beauty almost matched your degree.

 

For first I found the flowering lips of rose 
When, burning bright, a wildfire they blazed. 
How could the setting sun compare to those: 
The memory that shall never be erased.

 

But soon I fell into a tender blue, 
The eyes which could the oceans entire keep. 
How could the sky hold a candle to you, 
When epics could be wrought for those eyes deep?

 

And so I promise: you shall never die 
If here between these sheets of me you'll lie.

 

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Godan’s Muse

I've ventured 'cross some cold, bleak, distant peaks, 
But there is naught to e’er compare to thee. 
The peerless blue above those velvet cheeks: 
The moonlight to calm every stormy sea.

 

I rolled on waves and I’ve seen dawnings fair, 
But their beauty can only ever yield 
To radiance cast by golden strands of hair: 
The sunlight to sow every fallow field.

 

I’ve cleft the ocean twain on mighty ships, 
But thus you made the nightingale cry: 
None could hope to reflect those rosen lips, 
A flower to charm e’ery wandering eye

 

Then, since lands and sky all hold beauty, 
I so conclude that Godan’s muse was thee.

 

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The Holes of Wintertime 

Deep in the holes of wintertime I woke 
Next to your side, by a warm fire of oak. 
You whispered so quietly in the cold, 
From your lips wisps of mist did twist and fold.

 

You spoke to me about the spring softly, 
Said it was made by the lord above, for me. 
That he made it so we could gently lie 
Betwixt these hills until one day we die.

 

Hidden way from the warmth of a summer’s 
Sun, away from the march of the dummers’ 
Drums, lying under golden oaken leaves, 
I told you I love you beneath those trees.

 

And yet at last, when the autumn leaves fell 
You said you were no more under my spell 
I thought I’d stay together with you, so fair, 
But you left me there.

 

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Soeng Karoseo
And the common translation:
A Song of Crows

 

Usaer zezr haulyy haldae haenzi
Wiem hag dercurvsk denraat, huil zwyzi
Padrevar Ybiseo vzrarev kuz koeng
Luzeng weld ag wauldlund: Kholv ag walic

 

They poured ‘cross sea upon coasts haeseni
At dawn slaying the weak and lame, then these
Sons of Iblees set out unto the king
Along woodlands, marshes: cold and soaking.

 

Karos kyghyntae zwyen bottel routae
Karos trazk raez humovsk viktry velyae.
Krusae vatragan ag Godan zakisk:
Kursin ag zvaerd usaer byk drazativsk

 

And as honour demands that war be brought
The crows struck out to seize the victory sought.
Of hearth and faith they were a stalwart shield:
With coats of arms and shining blades of steel.

 

Nat lund vatragano supaes szar triek,
Va rotasseran nie vokja byk tuek
Tamort lafsk hauchoxtzen, lauderre, herzen.
Zejr kvesja, warae laujisk aestbrein

 

Upon the fields of flame their spears did meet
And dawn ‘til dusk no army knew defeat.
There fell warriors great, peasants and lords
Above the mud, where Godan’s heavens poured

 

Wiem mortesk feinvrago, tiz stratlyy rot
Ag zinsk maeno weo fitsk dlum supaes Got

 

They broke the horde, the rivers stained with blood
And sang of men who gave their lives for God.

 

 

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‘May the storms part in your passing'

- Sturmholm family proverb

[Sarven 1691]

*Marcus welcomes Vorion the poet to the seven skies with open arms, reminiscing about times long past*