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Of Gods and Men - Volume II (Post for 7/21/18)

Prologue

It was dark in the Wayward Foal.  Candles lined the bar of the tavern’s small common room, and across the way a healthy fire crackled in the cramped hearth that was set upon the stage; but they did naught more than give a glimpse of the place and the folk who drank there. 
Friendly faces and full-bodied conversation were replaced by snatches of silhouettes and hushed whispers.  It became abundantly clear, after spending a few moments in the Wayward Foal, that this place was dark by design.  To drink here meant to deal in secrets.
            The clunk of wood on wood echoed in the room, bringing even the whispers to an end.  A bowed and bent figure took the stage, blocking out the hearth with its darkened bulk.  The scratch of something being dragged across the small wooden platform filled the air for a moment, and then the figure turned to the crowd and fell onto a small stool set behind it with a final thump. 
            And then it was quiet…dead quiet.
            The sitting figure leaned in to his hushed crowd; small snatches of firelight catching the creases and crags of a face worn with time. 
            “I don’ typically do this,” the craggy-faced man said, his voice hoarse but still in full possession of tone: like a free-flowing stream laden with rocks.  “But I got a request for somethin new.  A new song bout the GodKing Malthus.  He’s come back, ya see?”
            No one answered, and he wasn’t expecting them too.  The crowd at the Wayward Foal did not give, but kept: kept their secrets, their conversations, even their applause.  To sing here…one may as well have sung alone in their room at night.
            The craggy-faced man pulled something out from his dark robe and the glint of wood and strings briefly made their appearance before disappearing again in the shadow of him.  He plucked a few strings and let the tones ring out as he adjusted the tuning of his instrument.  Finally, the bard’s head rose, and the firelight caught the mischievous glint in his eyes.
            “Not based on nothin but what I heard,” the bard announced.  “And I aint heard no one sing of him yet.”
            He lifted his head so that the firelight fell down his face, settling on his knotted hands holding a lyre.  He began to strum gently.  At first it was a simple melody; the notes danced lightly on the dark, heavy air in the tavern.  But very quickly the tune grew more complex; a web being woven by a spider, and each new thread brought the bar flies in closer.
            Then there came a great “Ohhhh.”  The bard’s first note pierced the dank closeness of the tavern like a sword.  It rang out, strong and clear, and though the folk watching remained silent, the mood had clearly shifted.  Before, they sat back in suspicion.  But now, they leaned in, enthralled by the music.
            And then the bard sang.

            Long ago, the gods they came
            And shaped this land to suit them
            They staked their claim
            With war and flame
            Their kingdoms laid, they ruled them

            But of the kings and queens divine
            Malthus proved the mightiest
            With sword in hand
            He carved his land
            And Malthanon stood ever blessed

            But one day, to the GodKing’s dread
            His sword Malthir was stolen
            The king revered
            Then disappeared
His people left beholden
           
            Ten thousand years was Malthus gone
            Till fin’ly folk renounced him
            Their king had fled
            Their god was dead
            Their city, dying round them

            And then there came a fateful day
            When the spire of Malthus fell
            Gods young and old
            Struck blows so bold
            Malthanon was doomed to quell

            But then a blinding light shone forth
            The spire stood tall again
            All gods did quake
            And stood agape
            At Malthus, returned to them

            And while this King wore different guise
            His face shown full of vigor
            His eyes alight
            With golden sight
            And the power to deliver

            Now that deliv’rance has come
            And Malthanon restored
            Where is the king
            Of whom I sing
            Our newly risen lord
           
            Well I’ve heard tell he walks nearby
            Though for him there be no far
            In shepherd’s greens
            He walks unseen
            Till needed where you are

            And if you see him in the wild
            With eyes hid under hood
            There’s yet a way
            Told in this lay
            For Malthus to be understood

            Though Shepherd he now claims to be
            He bears a sword so grand
            An ancient blade
            To guard twas made
            The Shepherd and his Brand
 

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