Grave were the faces

of the human army fair

as the stood face to face

with the devils of Brumaire


Twas fear that laced the air that morn,

and fear that moved their feet

for it was up to 2,000 lads

to bring the demons defeat


And great the armies of evil stood

and great their gnashing teeth

with fangs that bore, the remains of gore

and like an ocean their hatred seethed

"Such tender flesh!" the demons crowed.

"Such pretty hair and teeth!

We shall have a bit of both

and make fine necklaces and wreaths!"

And oh the horrors the youths then saw!

of lakes full of molten fire

their eyes did bleed and organs boil

as they saw their own funeral pyres


Barnaby shuddered as he reached the 5th stanza, just as he did every time he read it. The thought of seeing your own body burning was disconcerting and upset him. But always, Barnaby would return back to this poem. Something about it struck him as very important. Sometimes, he would find himself pouring over every line as if his life depended on it. He couldn't explain why he found himself doing it, but his mother had called it his 'booksense' while she had still lived. When he had been a child, he would often reach for a book, be it one of his or his mother's, and turn to a particular page. Every time he did this, his mother would stop what she was doing and rush to his side. Often times he had predicted small things such as his mother burning a finger while baking, or a bird dying in their attic, but one time and one time only, he had made a large prediction.

And that had been his mother's death.

But enough of such morbid things. The nameless Bard's skill at poetry was beyond compare, but some of her tales were surprisingly dark in nature.  Barnaby sat aside his book for the moment and simply stared up at the interwoven construct that shaded him. his sensitive ears picked up the tread of the mage girl. He turned his head and saw that she had the woman in tow.

"Luna, was it?"

The End

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