|Cursed King Loc|
This poem is from Zietal Mar resident Grabhol Faulkrunn, but was penned by Zeb Burnsthewick. It details the rise and fall of the mythical Dwarven king Loc. The book was bound in boar's leather, binded with moon grub silk, and illuminated with red gemstone dust.
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Lofty goals and high aspiration,
We find our Dwarf, Loc, his goal; to found a nation.
Through force of arms and oratory skill,
He founds an army to do his will.
Unsure of where to go, he casts his glance wide,
With friends, warriors and fighters, to him allied.
Up high he seeks to climb, to gain vantage,
A mountain; the height surely an advantage.
On the peak they stood, Loc looking for his home,
Unsure where to look, unsure where to roam.
Divine providence he seeks, on high he announces,
A single message to nature he pronounces.
The next wind that blows, goes against my aim,
I shall seek its source and its home I shall claim.
It shall be mine and mine alone,
There, shall be my throne.
On the mount, his flag he stuck,
Waiting for a sign, cursing his luck.
For seven days, they stood astute,
For any sign, with senses acute.
For seven nights, none dared move,
From the mountaintop until the gale did approve,
Their newest destination, their claim, their right,
Until the last hour on the seventh night.
In a mighty gale, the flag blew west,
The men cheered, their mission blessed.
The wind, now a roaring one, from the east,
Loc and his men, from their wait now released.
They stomped down the mount, over glen and dale,
Through snow and sleet, rain and gale.
Through pastures green marched the host,
Until there was no more land, they reached the coast.
With the sea before them, they settled down,
Claiming their land, building their town.
No matter that the area was already occupied,
By other Dwarves, who in force replied.
The two armies clashed, sword against axe,
Until the bodies piled up in stacks.
After four days of fierce bloodshed,
A Dwarf stepped forward and she said;
Loc! These lands will never be yours,
No matter the fights or wars.
You will never live to see the hour,
When you claim your land, your seat of power.
Thus the priestess spoke, her words wrang out,
Over the crowds and stopping the rout.
Shields dropped, swords clattered to the floor,
Loc, his desires stemmed, looked across the shore.
He turned to the wise woman and asked,
There must be a place for me, in this world vast,
For me to call my own, a way must be known,
He finished his words to the crone.
She looked sad and to the Dwarf next to her muttered,
The crowd parted, the Dwarf without a word uttered,
Walked through and returned shortly,
With a cup, large and portly.
Of burnished gold and greenest jade,
The masterfully wrought goblet was made,
Filled with cloying wine to the brim,
She held it out and gave it to him.
Drink this and a kingdom you shall own,
But you will die, bereft and alone.
With a taste of this wine still on your tongue,
You will perish, your story unsung.
Not halting for a second, Loc grabbed the drink,
Despite the warning, he did not shrink,
From his destiny and in one long draw,
He emptied the cup and threw it to the floor.
Looking up, the shaman had disappeared,
Loc wondered and stroked his beard.
From thereon with pain Loc was infested,
In his soul and body, deeply nested.
After many battles and many fights,
After many days and many nights,
Loc arrived at his last battlefield,
A lone Dwarf stood and would not yield.
The last Dwarf stood, with his golden sword,
Facing Loc and slowly walked toward,
Raising it he loudly proclaimed,
A curse on Loc, foul and untamed.
You have killed my brothers-in-arms and all of my kin,
A curse I put upon you, for this unholy sin.
A curse on the west, on the land whence you came,
And no more did this Dwarf exclaim.
For a night and a day they fought,
To end the other, each of them sought.
But at the end, the last Dwarf lay dead,
And Loc stood triumphant, but looked down in dread.
From side to side he had been split,
Across his belly a crimson slit,
His guts spilled forth, blood and gore,
And formed a scarlet puddle on the floor.
He cursed the east, his dream and the sun,
He was breathing his last and realized he was done.
He took up his bow, aimed to the sky,
Notched one last arrow and let it fly.
He died on that spot, before he could see,
That his final arrow flew true and free.
Striking the sun in its heart,
It plunged through it, taking a small part.
The arrow plunged to the sea, now made of gold,
The waters boiled and the waves rolled,
As it sunk to the abyss, into the deep,
And Loc’s army around him began to weep.
Some days, they saw, the old sun remembers,
And some of the molten gold drips from its embers.
It appears pitch black, with a hole gaping wide,
For Loc, who cursed it before he died.
So be wary of the power of curses,
Told in this story, laid out in these verses.
Be wary of the power of dreams that poison your mind,
And not, to all other matters, be blind.
For it may be the end of you, one way or another,
It turns friend against friend, brother against brother.
Remember these lessons, as you sit back and read,
Of Loc’s final deed.