The Troubadour

My Garden

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#3
Part of the following chapter:
Lore book icon Sir Ulfar the Wall, Stonereach Keep
Sir Ulfar the Wall, Stonereach Keep
#4

How my talents are wasted on such base, brute butcher work! Mine is the grace of subtle swordsmanship, not heavy-handed cleaving. Mine is the ecstasy of penmanship, not this rote boorish torture. Ah well. All to the greater glory.
I am a warrior, ...

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How my talents are wasted on such base, brute butcher work! Mine is the grace of subtle swordsmanship, not heavy-handed cleaving. Mine is the ecstasy of penmanship, not this rote boorish torture. Ah well. All to the greater glory.

I am a warrior, it is true, but I fancy myself part of the ancient tradition of the troubadour knight. I therefore must scriven to keep my mind sharp during these bloody doldrums.

In a half hour, I must rend a knave’s flesh until he offers up the truth. But for now, I will try my hand at romantic verse.

MY GARDEN
Before you, my passion was a root-bound garden choked with weed.
Before you, love was a cemetery devoid of seed.
But now your name bestows joy to the gloom.
Your name, once uttered, brings my garden to bloom.
For you, O celestial daughter
I water my garden with the wine of slaughter.
Romance by the blade,
My enemies unmade.
In every cold ear, I whisper your name.
And so you haunt the hearing canals of the dead.
Like the sea in a shell in a sandy bed.

I do believe this is my finest verse yet.

Sir Ozur

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