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The Lorasia Games
Welcome
The challenge had gone out, a call to arms and to pen, to
sword and to throwing things of various size and shape. The time for idle
boasts and threats was over. Now was the chance for the empires of Lorasia to
pit their best against one another, an opportunity to settle, once and for all
time, who was the greatest, who was the strongest, and who the most talented
verbarian. Or at least, until next year.
From all across Lorasia there came petitions of entry. And
on the twentieth of the month, into each encampment, from the most filthy
huddled collection of tents to the grandest of palisaded sites, which is of
course to say, from goblin campes to dwarven, there came a trio of armed and
armoured knights. Shielded in plate, and features hidden beneath helms, they
guarded a fourth, a small and berobed man, whose calculating expression and
penetrating gaze betrayed him as a member of the Merchant’s Guild.
Seeking out those who had pledged themselves to enter the
games, the Merchant gave to each a scroll, and bid them read. Or, in the case
of the goblin entrants, find someone who could read it for them. For some, the
words seemed of great beauty, each phrase capturing the essence of life, of
love, of sorrow and of pain, conjuring images and emotions that caused them to
weep tears of both sorrow and joy. For others, the words came as a battle cry,
clarion call to arms, sounding in spirit and soul, filling heart and sinew with
strength and fire. Whilst the goblins snickered at the filthy limericks penned
on their scroll.
Whatever shape the words took, however, the magic was the
same. There came a shimmering, a twisting, a reshaping of the world around
them. A moment of disorientation, of giddy exhilaration and sickening
wrenching, soul and body ripped apart then rejoined. The blink of an eye, an
instant’s darkness, and then they found themselves not within their camps, but
standing on a huge field, encircled by heavy forest.
In the field’s centre, twenty immense white banners, unfurled scroll-like
- each a hundred feet high and thirty wide - stood in a huge circle. Beyond the
circle of the banners stood a dozen tents, each flying the pennant of an empire
of Lorasia, and each separated by healthy distance. Around the field moved
berobed figures, some escorting contestants to the tents, some checking the
banners, others moving on less obvious business. And scattered across the
field, some standing guard by the banners, some patrolling between the tents,
but all armed and armoured, were warriors.
Some thought had apparently been given to the placement of
the tents for the contestants. The contestants of Lawful and Chaotic empires
were spaced always so that a neutral force was camped between them. And care
had also been taken to place the goblin tent firmly downwind of the rest of the
contestants, and indeed officials.
The games, it was announced, would take place the following
day. Because of the preference of some of the contestants to night and others
to day, none other than the self-appointed Master Magician of all Lorasia,
Tandilus, had been hired to cast his magic across the field, ensuring that for
the duration of the Games the sun’s rays would cause no ill effects. Entries to
the Riddling and Poetry contests were to be collected that evening and judged
during the next day. And in the meantime, contestants were offered use of two
small areas of the field, cordoned off, for training, as well as a shooting
range to one edge of the field. Food and refreshment was also available on
request. None however, it was made clear, were to leave the tents without armed
escort.
A Beginning
The morning began early, even before the sun had broken
clear from her abode beneath the land, not by proclamation by the Merchant’s
Guild, but by loud cursing, accompanied by a high-pitched whining, somewhat
similar to the sound of a cat in pain. As contestants and Guild officials like
emerged from their tents, they saw a tall woman, dressed only in leathers that
revealed more than they hid of her well-honed figure, striding out into the
centre of the field, dragging a goblin by the hair.
Guards quickly moved to encircle her, weapons drawn. Seeing
this, she threw the goblin onto the grass, planting one bare foot upon his neck
to silence its protestations of outrage as she shouted for an official. One was
quickly forthcoming, pushing through the growing crowd. Before he could open
his mouth to demand the reason for such behaviour, however the woman spoke,
voice carrying with authority to all who stood about her. “My name is Ksenia,
commander of the Crusaders of Lyredh. I caught this wretched creature trying to
sneak into my tent, doubtless intent on assassinating me. And I demand not only
that it be executed, but that the Grelg Clan, from which if doubtless comes, be
disqualified from the tournament.”
The official looked down at the goblin. ‘Well? How do you
answer these charges?”
Opening its mouth, the goblin tried to speak, and when only
a muffled choking ensued, Ksenia reluctantly relaxed her pressure on ifs neck.
“I never did” it shouted. “I ain’t no assas..asass..ain’t no killa...weIl,
actually, I is, but only ‘cause that’s the name of the army wot I’m in, an’ not
cos I were tryin’ to kill any-”
Of a sudden his tirade was cut off, as an arrow came to a
quivering halt imbedded deep in his chest. As the unfortunate creature turned
green -or at least a different shade of green - and expired, a larger goblin
pushed his way through the throng, another smaller specimen sporting a shortbow
at his side.
“Me apologies,” the goblin of larger stature rumbled. Or at
least, rumbled for a goblin, though perhaps low whine would be a more accurate
description. “I is Marakesh Grelg, leader of the Grelgs, an’ I apologise for
wof this ‘ere goblin of mine gone done. I will take ‘im back wiv me an’ make
sure as ‘e is prop’Iy punished.”
Marakesh looked up at the official as those gathered
wondered how exactly he would punish one already dead, before wishing that they
hadn’t. “Seing’s as which, I’m sure as you won’t want to go an’ ban us from the
contest, will ya? Sein’ as I’ve gon’ an’ punished me man ‘ere, even though
nuffin’ was proved or anyfin.’
The official shrugged, looking first at the glowering
Ksenia, then at the somewhat more horrific sight of a goblin trying to smile
pleasantly. “Well, given that the goblin has been...um...suitably chastised, I
see no reason to disqualify all the Grelgs. However, Mr Marakesh, please ensure
that those you command remain under your command in future.”
Marakesh nodded, before, gesturing for the smaller goblin to pick
up its dead comrade, sauntered out through the crowd, winking at Ksenia. Who,
features cold and impassive, strode from the circle, dignify and poise
unaffected by her lack of attire.
The Marksman
Contest
An hour later, as the sun, strangely muted, crested the
tree-tops to hang, low on the horizon, the officials called for those entering
the Marksmanship contest. Four emerged from the tents; the Grelg goblin Smoovie
whose arrow had recently found mark in its comrade, a dwarven maid named from
Ravnarok called Mhoraig, a female giant of Klan Ulminbore by the name of
Eavylyn, and Ksenia of the Crusaders of Lyredh.
Led by the official, they stepped through a gap between two
of the huge banners, to emerge into the circle beyond. The arena, if one could
call it such, was silent, the only spectators those few other contestants who
had moved to stand between the banners, and a ring of silent guards. As they
walked out to where a target had been placed near the centre of the arena with
a white line marked in the grass some sixty yards from it, however, a ripple
passed over the banners, though there was no breeze. And suddenly the air was
filled with the sound of a thousand voices, which broke from a murmuring into
full-throated cheer.
Startled, the contestants looked up to the banners to see
the image of huge crowds on each, faces of all races looking down into the
arena. The official with - the contestants smiled at their surprise. “We have
placed banners in all the main market places of Lorasia, so that truly, whoever
is victorious will be applauded across the land.”
Standing at the line, the official called out the rules, to
both crowd and contestants alike. One arrow, bolt or missile each, with the
marksman finding their shot widest of the mark knocked out. The target is then
moved back, and the process repeated until only one victor remains.
At which point, the goblin raised his hand. ‘Scuse me, but
‘ow does I know there’s no cheatin’ gon’ on? I reckons as I should be allowed
to check the target, as everyone knows as them refs are biased ‘gainst
goblins.”
The official, shrugging, nodded acquiescence, and amidst
booing from the crowd, Smoovie wandered up to the target. First kicking its
base, he moved behind it, examining it closely first from the back then the
front, before finally, dawdling, returning. The official raised an eyebrow.
“Well?”
Smoovie shrugged. “S okay, ‘spose.”
First up to the line stepped Ksenia. Instead of a bow, from
her belt she unclipped a circle of gleaming steel, which, she explained to a
curious Eavylyn, was called a Round Killing Thing. Raising her hand back behind
her shoulder, she flicked it forwards, and the crowd applauded as it slammed
into the centre of the target.
Next up was Smoovie, who, after an inordinate length of time
spent fiddling with his bow, finally let fly a rather dubious shot, which
nevertheless found its mark some inches out from the centre ring. Next came
Mhoraig, who, raising a finely crafted black crossbow to her shoulder, sent her
bolt true towards the target. To her disgust and apparent surprise, however,
the bolt bore to the right, landing wide of the second ring.
Disbelieving, she stepped back to allow the giant to take
the line. Who, taking out what appeared to be - and indeed was - a two foot
long curved piece of wood, shaped like a crescent moon, raised her hand to send
it spinning out towards the target. Missing entirely, it sailed on past the
butt, emanating a low hum as to the astonishment of the crowd it hung for a
moment in the air, before swerving back towards the target, finally slamming
into the back with force enough to knock the target from its stand. And in the
moment of awed silence, a dark stone fell from the target.
Cursing, Mhoraig ran to the target, picking up the stone to
hold it aloft.
“Lodestone,” she proclaimed. “Which explains why my arrow
flew untrue. I claim the goblin a cheat, to be disqualified.”
Nodding, the official turned to gesture to the guards to
escort Smoovie from the arena. But, as a thousand onlookers could testify to,
the goblin had already scarpered.
The target righted and moved back, the three remaining
markswomen stepped forwards once more. Before any could take the line, however,
Mhoraig, eyeing the target, proclaimed it too easy, proposing that the target
should be made a moving one, and preferably further obstacles placed between
archer - or boomeranger or round killing thinger - to make the contest more
interesting. Ksenia and Eavylyn, shrugging, agreed, and Tandilus was called
for.
Half an hour later, to the oohs and aahs of the crowd, the mage
had produced a wall of fire between target and line, and further, had caused
the legs of the target stand to become mobile, so that the target now danced up
and down on the spot beyond the fire. None of which phased Mhoraig, who, taking
the line, crouched down and let fly her bolt. The target leapt to one side, but
Mhoraig had anticipated this, and the bolt slammed into the centre of its face.
Eavylyn stepped next to the line, and again the boomerang
took flight. Rising high over the line of the fire, again it missed on its
outward flight, but as if passed over the target’s head the target turned, and,
watching intently, dodged nimbly aside so that the boomerang swept past it to
be caught cleanly by the giant. Shrugging sadly, Eavylyn moved back to allow
Ksenia her shot. The Crusader, arm raised, held motionless, eyes locked on the
target, and a hush fell over the arena. The moment lengthened, a single tear
drop of sweat rolling down Ksenia’s face, but never did she so much as blink.
Finally, unable to take the pressure, the target jumped to one side, and as it
did, the air was rent in twain, and the chakram flew with incredibly speed to
slam into the target beside Mhoraig’s bolt.
Leaving just two. The target was ordered backwards, dancing
nervously, and Mhoraig stepped forwards, Instead of merely firing, however, she
took a dozen steps to one side of the line, before running back towards it. As
she drew level with the line, she brought her crossbow to her shoulder, and,
without breaking stride, sent her bolt flying to bury itself in second circle,
some six inches from centre.
Leaving only Ksenia. Meeting Mhoraig’s gaze for a moment,
she smiled almost imperceptibly, before striding out, again moving way to one
side of the line. Taking a moment to compose herself, Ksenia started to run.
Then, ten feet before reaching the line, she let out a cry, the high trill
sounding loud in the hushed silence as she leapt into the air, executing a
double somersault, at the peak of which she let fly the chakram which slammed
true into the centre of the astonished target. And the crowd, it was fair to
say, went wild.
The Wrestling Bout
First into the arena, emerging from separate ends, of the
field, stepped the Dwarf-Lord Odo Kundahkin, and the goblin Grotuck. Both had
chosen to fight naked. But whereas Odo, striding into the centre of the field,
oiled muscles gleaming and hair and beard slicked down, bespoke of
magnificence, Grotuck was rather less appealing to the eyes. Overweight, and
having apparently used excrement rather than oil to daub himself, he sauntered
forwards as officials and guards alike fell back, the stench emanating from his
unwashed body almost overwhelming.
Standing before Odo he grinned, raising his arms above his
head, and even the dwarf’s visage of determination momentarily faltered as bile
rose in his throat. But, recovering his composure, Odo returned Grotuck’s smile
coldly, clearly relishing the fight to come.
To the submission only, the official called, before
retreating hurriedly from the reach of Grotuck’s stench. And the submission
came quickly. Ducking away from Odo’s reaching arms, the goblin lashed out with
his foot, seeking to connect with Odo’s groin. Odo, however, turning aside, caught
Grotuck’s leg, and in a display of strength, hauled the goblin entirely off the
ground by his foot, before depositing him back onto the grass and capturing his
head in an armlock, barely managing not to retch before Grotuck called out in
submission.
Next came the giant Sam against - once again - Ksenia. The
two, clearly known to each other, clasped arm in greeting, before moving into
position. Ksenia into a fighting crouch, Sam merely standing still, flexing
oversized arms. The fight seemed set to be a good one, Ksenia’s known agility
against Sam’s strength. In the end, however, it was over almost before it was
begun. Sam, reaching out for Ksenia, found himself embracing only air as
Ksenia, from a crouch, leapt clean over his head to land behind him. Wrapping
her arms about his waist, she grunted with exertion as, impossibly, she lifted
him from the ground, tossing him ten feet across the field to land, heavily, on
his back. Standing back to allow him to gain his feet, Ksenia moved into a
crouch once more, but Sam, shaking his head, acknowledged defeat, outmatched in
his own strongest area - his strength.
So it was that Odo and Ksenia stepped forwards for the final
bout. Having seen Ksenia fight Sam, Odo knew in his heart that he had no chance
of victory in this bout, and yet accepted Ksenia’s outstretched arm, greeting
her as warrior to warrior. The official stepped back - and the two came
together. Locking her arms about the dwarf, Ksenia sought to throw him as she
had Sam. Ready for this, however, the well-oiled dwarf slipped from her grasp,
rolling on the ground and reaching out to grab at Ksenia’s leg, seeking to trip
the Crusader.
Ksenia, seeming to anticipate this, leapt high into the air,
seeking to land upon the dwarf’s shoulders as he rose to his feet. Diving to
one side, the dwarf twisted awkwardly to face her as she landed gracefully on
the grass only to launch herself at the dwarf once more. This time in a feet
first lunge, her legs wrapped themselves around the dwarves neck as she turned
in their air, flipping the dwarf off his feet to slam him down onto the ground.
Such a move, on one less tough than a dwarf, might have broken
their neck. Odo, however, red-faced, struggled to rise. But before her could
regain breath or balance, Ksenia was on her feet once more, and this time when
she lunged forwards, he was unable to avoid hen reach, and found himself face
pressed into the grass. Ksenia’s weight on his back, and his arm twisted up
behind him. Spitting grass, he called submission.
The Grand Melee
Finally, as the sun nose high above the arena -though to the
disappointment of all apparently having no adverse affect on the goblins - the
Grand Melee was announced. Contrary to its name, again the contest was to be
fought in one-on-one bouts. First, Ksenia was to face the dwarf Red Ruth. It is
said that a true master turns a disadvantage into an advantage. And as Red Ruth
stepped into the arena, one-eyed, one-legged, old, and wielding a sword almost
as tall as he, consensus was that either the dwarf was indeed a great master,
or merely a great fool to even think of going up against one such as Ksenia.
Ksenia, meeting the dwarf, bowed low. Instead of responding
in kind, however, the dwarf met her gaze for a long moment, before, as if
coming to some conclusion, nodding. Holding the sword in both hands, he held it
out to her.
“I cannot best such a champion,” he called out, both to her
and to the crowd. “You are a noble and valiant warrior, and deserve to carry
the best possible blade into combat against the Champions of Chaos. Take this
sword, and fight as dwarf-friend, as much for Ravnarok as for your own people,
and as much for your people as yourself.”
Ksenia, clearly moved, bowed her head again, accepting the
sword. And, amidst cheers boos in equal measure from the crowd, the two parted.
The official announced that next, Marakesh, leader of the
Grelgs, would fight the dwarven leader Fwalin, Thunderbearer. Marakesh, dressed
in heavy armour, holding a large shield and wielding a sword that shone dully,
strode forwards, acknowledging cheers and boos with equal appreciation. For a
time he stood alone on the field, and was taking to striding to and fro,
apparently talking to his blade, when a roar went up from beyond the banners
and a dwarf charged into the arena.
Wielding axe in one hand and hammer in the other, the dwarf
was, as seemed the trend, naked, revealing intricate tattoos that covered every
inch of flesh, seeming to writhe and twist beneath his skin. As he charged
towards Marakesh. he seemed to grow in stature, sinew and muscle corded and
straining, his pace increasing, lengthening. The name of Eldaron on his lips,
the very ground trembled as the Thunderbearer closed on Marakesh.
It was all that the goblin could do to raise sword and
shield enough to block the attack, yet even so he was flung off his feet and
tossed aside by the force of the Thunderbearer’s attack, dwarven hammer meeting
Marakesh’s sword to send it flying from the goblin’s-grasp, and dwarven axe
meeting the goblin’s shield, which split beneath the blow. Marakesh himself,
dazed, found his feet just as the Thunderbearer, still screaming the name of
Eldaron, skidded to a halt and turned to charge once more.
Marakesh, eyes wide with fear, raised his hands, calling out
submission even as he backed away, mumbling about unfair play and
non-sportsmanlike berserk rages.
The arena was empty. The official, having announced the final bout
between Ksenia and the Thunderbearer, had retreated beyond the circle of
banners, and now only a tense silence filled the field. To the crowd’s
surprise, however, there came no shrieking war-cry, nor roared bellow of
Eldaron’s name. Instead, Ksenia and Fwalin walked out slowly from opposite ends
of the arena. Fwalin once again held axe and hammer, whilst Ksenia, the
dwarf-sword in her hands, also had sword, dagger at her belt. Meeting, Fwalin
put down his weapons whilst Ksenia drove the dwarf-sword point first into the
earth, before the two locked arms. Then, bowing, Fwalin took up his weapons
again, backing away to stand a few feet from the Crusader. Ksenia, however, did
not retake the dwarf-sword, instead unsheathing the sword at her belt, as she
proclaimed that she would not use such a gift against kin of the very people
who had so gifted her with the weapon.
In friendship they had met, but as they came together for a
second time, a blur of steel and flesh, none watching would have known that any
such kinship was shared. Eldaron’s name on the Thunderbearer’s lips once more,
again he seemed to grow in stature as he attacked in a wild flurry of blows
that were nevertheless somehow controlled, and Ksenia, for her part, found
herself backing away, sword dancing before her to weave a web of flickering
steel, through which Fwalin’s attack could not penetrate.
More dance than battle it seemed, and indeed, as one of a
sudden they parted, some signal passed between them, and for a moment they eyed
each other with new respect, both bathed now in sweat and breathing heavily.
Then once again they closed, but this time Ksenia held his blows only for an
instant before flipping backwards, somersaulting once, finding her feet, then
launching herself forwards and sideways, charging not at but past Fwalin, sword
slicing out at the dwarf. Meeting it with axe, Fwalin sought to parry, but at
the final instant Ksenia shifted her grip, bringing her sword down at an angle
to bite deep into the shaft of the axe, severing head from haft.
For a moment Fwalin stared in disbelief, unable to
understand how Ksenia could have possessed such strength. But, casting the
broken weapon aside, he took now the hammer in both hands, charging forwards
again. Evenly matched, the dance continued, neither seeming to tire, neither
missing a stroke. And yet whilst for a time neither seemed to have the upper
hand, it was ever Ksenia’s blows that struck with greater strength, always met
by Fwalin’s parry, but gradually serving to drive the dwarf back across the
field.
Sensing her advantage, Ksenia pushed forwards with greater
intensity, each blow accompanied by a cry that spoke of the thrill of battle.
Then, abruptly, she broke off the attack, slipping sideways past Fwalin. Taken
by surprise, the dwarf spun round, instinctively raising his weapon for the
unseen blow he yet knew had to be coming. It was, but aimed not towards him but
again for his weapon. Cursing, Fwalin sought to angle his hammer to deflect the
cutting edge of Ksenia’s sword, but the fleeting instant between recognition of
the direction of Ksenia’s blow and the impact of its landing left no time, and
as Ksenia screamed in triumph, her sword cleaved through the wood of the
hammer’s shaft.
For a moment time held in the balance as the two faced each
other, Ksenia’s sword angled towards the dwarf’s chest. Then, nodding, the
Thunderbearer fell to his knees, form seeming visibly to shrink as the litany
to his god fell silent. A moment longer, Ksenia remained with sword
outstretched, before, in a fluid movement that revealed none of the exhaustion
she was surely feeling, she sheathed her weapon. Reaching down, she clasped the
dwarf by the arm for a second time, drawing him to his feet. And, as the crowd
yelled their appreciation, the two walked together from the field.
Results of the Bard’s Corner
First, let it be known that I do not usually have anything
to do with such crude contests. My art is as high above such material
competitions as the eagle which soars over this land upon which we crawl, not to
be prostituted for prize or fiscal reward. And yet, and nevertheless, perhaps
those of us with such rarefied gift for poetry and pose as I have a duty to
reach down to those below us, to lend our acquired wisdom and knowledge. Which
is why I agreed to head the panel of judges for the Bard’s Contest. And
certainly not the handsome fee promised me by the Merchant’s Guild.
Four poems were presented to the panel of judges - headed,
needless to say by myself - for consideration and scrutiny. The standard was
high, and indeed, I find myself surprised to have to admit that I would not be
disgraced were I to have penned them myself. Well, three of them, at least, for
I prefer not to sully my mind by considering the goblin entry, which in my most
humble of opinions should have been disqualified on the grounds of the mockery
it makes of all serious and high-minded poets such as myself, though, bowing to
majority vote of the panel, I agreed to allow it entry. And with such high
standards, it was inevitable, perhaps, that we amongst the panel were unable to
reach unanimous decision as to which was the greatest work of art.
All of the entries - even, to my uttermost horror and
disgust, that of the goblins - found their champions amongst the panel. None of
us could fail to be moved,by the stirring prose of Sons of Ravnarok, and,
were we but dwarven and but still possessed of youth, even now we should have
discarded quill and ink to take up axe and shield in the fight for glory. Wintersong’s
Saga, too, was in its own way no less moving, and I, for one, was touched
by the rich imagery, words not only conjuring but moulding, and so enriching,
nature. Art not imitating life, but capturing and reflecting it to reveal
facets hidden even to itself, until revealed by the incisive cut of the pen. Sinking
to Glorylyredh. on the other hand, touched on depths beneath the
mere conscious, speaking almost beyond the power of words to capture, yet
somehow here portrayed nevertheless. No line, dissected and taken alone, seems
to contain sense, the words strung together without meaning. And yet, from the
whole, meaning somehow comes. To reduce is the roleof the scientist, to see the
greater image, the work of the poet. Some on the panel found this the most
disturbing work, yet no less the great for this.
And then there was the goblin entry of Them Stumpy
Dwarves. Upon which I care not to dwell, lest sully the higher aesthetic of
my mind, and scare the muse which so perches upon my shoulder. Sadly, however,
others of the panel liked it.
Four works, then, of great stature, or at least, three of
great stature and one twisted monument to the lowest-common denominator. But
decision had to be made, and so, finally, we award the highest honours to Sinking
to Glory! yedrh, with second place going, much to my horror,
disgust, and lingering sense of distaste, to Them Stumpy Dwarves. Go
figure.
Sinking to Glorylyredh
I sink to glory Lyredh
I sink of her beauty and her call
descending scales from head to tails
rising up-side down to drown in lyric
lay.
Oh woe! The well and pump of loveliness
of lustiness the headlong plunge
drawn down by levity, light-headedness
to dwell at last in soul-thick gunge.
How wonderful the smothering
the bursting ear, the sodden limb!
How stately slow the cushioned glide
from superficial air to deepest hymn!
How she fills my lungs and throat
my nose and eyes, my blood-shot brain!
How she still calls, tugs at my cloak
even though I am so far away,
dry-drained!
Oh let me but return, Sweet Mystress
Beyond Sense! Let me swell again and
float
flying down through your dense skies
to anchor this time for ever in your arms!
Cleetus of Klan Ulminbore, priest of
Lyredh, translated by Aunt Gimima
Them Stumpy Dwarves
Them Stumpty Dwarves at Balen’s Deep,
Saw us come and them didz weep,
They just new themz time wuz up
and themz hides we wuz to whup,
We stopped outside them great big wallz,
and chucked sum rocks and ‘uge fireballs,
Up at them as t’sun went down
they bounced right off and made uz frown,
Uz forces grew then grew sum more,
till ya cud not hardly see the floor,
for Gobbos, Vamps and Gnolls had come,
to beat the stunties on the bum,
Wiv ladders and wiv mantlets too,
Siege engines puxhed by swetty crew,
Up the walls and too the top, -
Heds from neks we went to lop,
The stumpies cried and tried to turn,
but on uz stakes them soon did burn,
all uz Gobbos we did laff,
As Balen’s soul went into the Skull
Staff.
No Balen’s Deep now Balen’s ded
Wiv Dwafy blud the walls iz red
Chaa-Gok now is wotz its name
Cos Gobbos ruwl, we wun the game.
By Smoovie, scribe to the Grelgs
Sons of Ravnarok, Awake!
You, true sons of Ravnarok, awake from
your slumbers!
The war blast is sounding over valley and
hill;
Too long you have slept in the bed of
affliction.
Your moans pierce my heart, like a
murmuring nIl;
Your leaders were banished: yet hope has
not left you,
Though firmly bound down by Chaos’ chain,
So, draw your swords quickly, while
strength has been left you,
And make one bold dash for your freedom
again!
Chorus:
You, true sons of Ravnarok, awake from
your slumbers!
No longer let tyrants your valleys
invade.
Let the long silent pipes vibrate loud
numbers;
Now Kundah-kin is leading the dwarven
brigade.
Oh! how can you slumber, submissively
yielding,
While the pipes of freedom shriek loud in
the air,
And on strange battlefields our sabres
are wielding?
No heroes or chieftain more noble are
there;
On history’s pages your fame is recorded;
Yet the vile ogre traitors your green
hills pollute,
And trample the flag which they should
have regarded,
So, strike for your freedom at Chaos’
root.
What beast could look upon Ravnarok’s
blue mountains
And view the grey fog looming up in the
air
Or sit, for a while, by her bright golden
fountains,
Without adding a tear of sympathy there?
Or see her grand towers with ivy
surrounded,
Where now the lone cry of the night owl
is heard,
As her beautiful rivers with echo
resounded,
To answer the voice of the romantic bird?
The famed Berek Broadbelly by ogres
smitten,
His red blooded murder all empires could
see:
Now it’s time that his epitaph should
have been written,
And Ravnarok once more be great, glorious
and free;
With the worthy Verlana. that dwarven
martyr,
Cold, cold in the grave, though their
ashes remain:
Yet their spirits forewarn the time is
growing shorter,
When Ravnarok’s bold banner will float
once again.
Remember the siege of Rockash troll city,
When dwarves bold and brave encountered
the shift of power;
And heroic Broadbelly, both loyal and
witty,
Saluted the foe with a hot blooded
glower;
Is such patriotism so easy forgotten.
While the blood of our forefathers courses
thro’ our veins?
No! Their glory exists, though their
bones may be rotten,
To conquer our foes yet as Kundah did and
become, dwarf thanes.
By Lyu!f, Bard of Ravnarok
Wintersong Saga
I am the Wintersong. Listen to my voice.
It is pure and clear as acrid water
Coursing deep in a glacier’s heart.
It is crisp like deepest winter night.
I can speak, a thundering avalanche,
As a gentle breeze refreshing parched
brow,
Or utterly quiet, like falling snow.
I can wither the strongest, most stout
heart,
And I can bestow strength on timid souls.
I am the child of destiny.
Some came to love me, others to fear.
Away into the night they spirited me.
Far from hearth and home, abandoned,
They left me in the cold harsh land.
No longer a threat to their plans.
But I did not die, nor will I,
And from death I snatched life
To repay the debts those men incurred.
I am the Urchin of the Agerian
Wandering from camp to camp
As a teen I was a familiar sight,
Scavenging the trash heap for clothing
And begging for scraps of food.
Outcasts befriended me.
The lonely, forgotten are my family.
They gather to me like pups to their
mother;
In me they will be restored.
I am the thunder on the Agerian.
The hooves of my clan’s horsemen
Follow behind me as I ride
Swiftly across the plains.
My people shall reclaim their place
And establish a new domain;
The plains shall be our home.
There we shall fulfill our destiny,
Masters and Lords of the plains.
This is our destiny. Hear it. Know it.
Live it.
Aethelu Wintersong, of the Horseclans of Ageria
Riddling Contest
Whilst such banal edifices of words and idle minds are, for
the most part, beneath the poet’s consideration, the Merchant’s Guild imposed
on me to take a moment to cast my gaze upon the entries to this field of the
competition. Imagine my surprise, then, when I found amongst the entries contributions
that very nearly resembled poetry, not only puzzles, but also well constructed
and finely constructed works. Sadly, included with these entries lurked a
filthy scrap of parchment penned the in the scrawl of goblin-kind. But every
How to judge a riddle? Does one mark it on literary
excellence, or difficulty? Playfulness, perhaps, or maybe even the wit of the
writer as revealed in the words? Whichever criteria one applies, however, of
the three entries we were quickly able to discard the goblin entry, the rest of
the judges, thankfully, seeing sense this time.
The remaining two entries, however - one by the dwarvemaid
Maeve of Ravnarok, the other by the giant Gran, were both finely composed
stanzas of wit; both well-constructed, both imaginative. In praise of Gran’s
entry, it should be stated that none one judge correctly ascertained the
answer. And yet this is also, perhaps, a short-coming, for even when the answer
was revealed, some remained uncertain of how it was reached. It also seemed to
contain more than one bizarre reference to other, stranger realities, and
whilst such glimpses are intriguing, they are also disturbing. The dwarven
entry, on the other hand, we found gave up its answer more readily, but yet
also a second answer seemed to fit the riddle almost as handsomely. -
In the end, then, we have decided to award first place to
the dwarven entry, with the giant’s offering a close second, and the goblin’s
pitiful attempt third only through lack of further submissions.
I am the start of the riddle
For I am its eye
Remove all that is nigh
From that which is denied
Take the -first from hell
To leave just the one
Finished with a falsetto scream.
by Maeve of Ravnarok
My head is an ocean
My tail ends in death
My body is wood an’
Encircles the Globe.
Both fish and game
I feed gut and brain.
Pray what is my name?
By Gran, Intellectual giant of Klan Ulminbore
Q: Wot’s ded an’ smells bad?
A: A Dwarf wiv after-shave on.
Q: Wot goes splat we ya chuk it off
the walls of
Balen’s
Deep?
A: A Dwarf holdin’ a tomato
Q: Wot’s Red an’ Ded?
A: A commie Dwarf
By Filcha Grelg, a goblin.
And so it Ends
And so ends the first annual Lorasia Games. Overall victory went
to the Crusaders of Lyredh, thanks to the achievements of their leader, Ksenia.
Laurels also to the dwarves of both Ravnarok and Fwalin’s Folk and the giants
of Ulmindale, and a mention, perhaps, of thanks to the goblins of the Grelg
Clan, who at least provided amusement value through their various failures and
blatant cheating. The panel of judges and officials hope that all enjoyed the
event, and look forwards to hosting the second Lorasia Games in the summer of
next year.
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