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Deum Bello Manuscript

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  • Deum Bello Manuscript

    So, in an effort to get a bit more of a cultural aspect added to the world, I'm creating a set of epic poetry in a quasi-imitative format to that of Beowulf and other older texts and I thought I might share them here to kind of get some feedback, and to prepare for future projects that I'm working on for the world of Mantica. I think this world has a lot of potential but nobody knows where they want to take it, so I thought I'd offer my contribution to the process. So with that said I offer the first part of what I am calling the "Deum Bello Manuscript" being an artistic interpretation of the God Wars, written by a Primovantor Monk in the time between the God War and the War with Winter. Consider this a translation into a more modern language, having been originally written in the sacred tongue of the inner sanctum of Primovantor and only recently being translated by a rogue reformist who stole a copy of the manuscript while defecting to the now broken allegiance of the Brotherhood. Therefore the rhyming and meter will not translate directly into layman verse, but the monk tried to accommodate the change as best as possible.

    With that in mind I present to you the Fenulian Cycle, as it is called in the common tongue

    The Fenulian Cycle

    Behold the days of divinity are past

    For the Gods are torn asunder

    The silver shards of sinful pride

    And the wyrd of Calisor Fenulian

    That lead the gods to wicked ends.

    Herein lies the folly of this Hero of Ages

    The glories he won now turned to ash

    Upon the Abyssal pyres of shame.

    We are told of Calisorís fame:

    He wrought the Dragon Tongue,

    That bound the draconic to the elven.

    His power he won through willful force

    The pride of his people to wear

    Wonders he forged of Gold, Blood and Magic

    Bending the cosmos to his will.

    His greatest feat he had yet to earn,

    And terrible would be his undoing by it.

    To win the heart of Primovantorís daughter.

    All Hail! We sing of Elinathora! The fairest sire of man

    And muse of Calisorís portentous desires.

    Of her beauty, no canto can compare

    The azure of her eyes, the chestnut of her hair.

    The golden softness of her gentle fingers

    And the grace whereby she glided across the ground

    The gentle enchantments of her being

    Stole over the great elven heart of Calisor.

    Too late did Calisor seek to steel his heart

    While her gilded voice did unwittingly steal

    And in its place left a leaden lump

    Too cold to bear his agonizing grief.

    His attempts to make a humble trade

    Betwixt their noble breasts,

    That he might win her worthy affection:

    He sang in turn laments and praise

    Each foray most earnest, but still

    She kept her stalwart defenses

    To keep his heart away from his chest.

    He worked wonders for her,

    Moved the heavens to weep,

    The ground he painted anew

    In colors to mirror his passion

    That for her only did burn.

    Yet still she refused to be moved.

    In courtly dance the two did step

    Yet she would always stay his hand.

    If ever the topic of love was raised

    She scorned his every word.

    Elinathora! In thy wise vanity didst thou see?

    Thy mournful epithets forever will name thee

    The Mother of Sorrows, the Bringer of Sadness.

    In thy breast a painful truth did grow:

    That Fenulian and his protests of love,

    Their shadow far too long,

    Despite thine earnest attempts

    Did swallow thee in the end.

    And thus began the melancholy

    That would drive the world to sin.

    Calisorís pride and the love of a

    Woman did swallow his soul

    So it was, his days grew dimmer

    The light began to fade, as yearning

    Grew to obsession, and Calisor fell

    To despair.

    Taking to Natureís Gardens

    He walked to spare his mind its grief

    There he came upon that tarnished son

    Whose heart was wreathed in shadow.

    Oskan! That vile deceiver!

    The Father of Lies himself.

    Dark was his gaze and false his words

    When the Beguiler did speak to Calisor

    Offering false promise of solace

    Knowing of Elinathoraís denial

    And the wound upon his elven pride,

    Oskan used his plated, forked tongue

    To make Calisor smile.

    Giving up knowledge of Celestian demise

    The Dark One, Father of that Wicked Race,

    Soothed a wounded heart, he calmed

    The storm within Calisorís longing

    And sickly silver borrowed from his tongue

    He used to plant a scheme in Fenulian hands:

    A mirror is no salve to vanity,

    Instead it is but a crutch for crippled pride

    And in this guise did Oskan preach.

    His words did please sickly Calisor so,

    That he quickly retired to find his way,

    Lost though he now would be,

    To seal this world its doom.

    Barely giving notice to Oskanís

    Half-given warning

    To beware the Golden Bird.

    So it was upon a golden day

    That Calisor did cast in silver hue

    The Doom of the divine Celestians

    And cast their fate in vanity pure

    To place before his beloved.

    Elinathora in her unknowing wisdom

    Refused the looking glass.

    But Calisor pursued undaunted

    Himself refusing to view

    The future Fate had planned for him

    Instead he pressed relentlessly on

    Until he beat down Elinathoraís wisdom

    And she acquiesced to his sorrowful request

    To look in that fateful silver.

    What she beheld there, no man can tell.

    She gazed for untold hours

    As days that would never be stole by.

    In her vision she saw the wonders

    Of a life spent in the shade of Calisorís fame

    And as she watched, Fenulian stood by.

    He sat in anxious anguish,

    Her impassive face his tyrant,

    Her eyes the stoicism of a stone.

    Until at last her defenses broke

    And the sun reflected a reluctant smile

    Which hid the warnings of a gilded fowl.

    So, unimpeded, the Lady continued her vigil.

    And oh! What horrors she must have seen

    That her final refusal escapes her lips

    And with the fated glass above her head

    She utters, ďthis cannot be, this cannot be!Ē

    She casts the mirror down.

    Thus shattered silver did strike the world in twain

    So broke it was, that nothing more

    Could set the world to right

    But the scarred edge of Blackest Night

    Upon the Executionerís Axe.

    By the breaking of Celestian Light,

    With the pride of the elves and the folly of man.

    Mortals did bring about the end of divinity

    The gods were torn asunder

    By this Calisor, and his never-to-be Elinathora.

    The heavens wept and the stones did shudder,

    The forests cried out in anguish

    Until they found their Green Mother.

    Shining and Wicked now newly born

    Two lesser halves now never to be whole,

    Sought to dominate the world

    In the throes of titanic division.

    Heroes were born in the ages that would come

    And feats of bravery and villany

    Would become the things of legend.

    But as for the now despised Fenulian

    His shame too much to bear

    He faded, his fate that unimportant

    His passing was without note.

    Of Elinathora, all that is known

    Is that she died.

    These two would-be lovers

    Swallowed by a fate that neither knew.

    Ignominious passings in a nighttime of life

    Which began as a dream, but ended as the world

    And those shards of fateful silver:

    Broken, divided, and alone.
    Last edited by Gregor; 06-12-2017, 01:35 AM.

  • #2
    Anyone have any feedback on this? Would anyone like to see more of it? I know that poetry and epics were a big thing historically in medieval literature and I thought it might fit well in with this aspect of the fantasy realm.