Hearthglen Poet's Poster

[DaveM]

On the right-most end of the Hearthglen notice board, a poster reads:

Hearthglen's Literary Society hereby brings you:

Hearthglen's (Monthly, bi-weekly or weekly, depending on the interest shown) Poetry Competition

Drop your poetry submissions in the box below.

The theme for this edition is "Redemption".

You have one week for submissions.

First place gets five gold, a third of the participants but no more than five get runner-up prizes of one gold.

It will be judged by Singerius Narmolanya along with a host of expert friends to be listed below as they are recruited.

Below it, an arrow points to the submission box tied to the foot of the notice post.

Spoiler:

((OOC:

-You may submit pieces from different characters, but no more than one each.

-Post submissions in posts on this thread, or PM if it is imperative to you that they not be seen by others.

-Express interest to judge submissions in PMs to me. (Looking for a diverse panel)

[Ruibarra]

*A letter written in sloppy writing is submitted. The front of the letter reads, "Redemption: Ralf Blackwood." Once you open the letter to poem there states.*

Redemption, a hard thing to earn,
One thing in life, that some always yearn.

What is a chance to get back what you had once had?
Try and get the things back after something so bad?

Life will never grant second chances,
But who in this land would pass up the some more dances?
The sun sets every day, and rises after every night,
But is there to say that you will rise after your final fight?
Given the time you have, do not think for another life,
Redemption could come, but so could a knife.
What chance does anyone have to live ,then die, then live again?
Or for someone to fall off the map...just like when they begin?

This life is something to cherish,
Not something to waste until you parish,
Thinking when you fall you will rise again,
Because sometime, life doesn't start again,

Redemption, a very hard thing to earn,
The one thing in life, no one could earn.

~Ralf Blackwood, Argent Blacksmith.

[ThePharaoh]

An envelope is submitted with a wax seal of the Novalight insignia. The front reads, Zariel Amaru Novalight. Open opening a fresh sheet of parchment folded into three sections revealing neat text written in common.

Spoiler:

The Flight of the Phoenix
Zariel Amaru Novalight

She didn't save his life, She saved his soul,
Made him right, She made him whole,
Gave him a goal, an ear when both alone
Had his back as well as any silk he's ever owned

He didn't take her life, He took her soul,
He made it hide, he made it cold
Paved her road, sent her down it alone
Blood trickled down her back as quick as any river's flowed

Now his sight sickens her, Yet he misses her
He turns to walk away, and then envisions her
She barely thinks of him, the image of his vision blurs
His conscience makes him stop, the sting of mental spurs
"I'm sorry" And 'Thank you", Just those simple words
That she never heard, The anchor of his pride, so absurd
But she said them often, Even now he still can hear
in his mental ear, Crystal clear, knowing now, he'll miss those years
and Time, as it passes, akin to molasses, he rests in ashes.





But now he's better, good thing life is long,
enough time to reflect and then right these wrongs,
Lessons learned, in spite of pain,
But now he smiles, in sight of rain,
Never will he scar, one like that again
One of substance, jumping to the sky of a justice,
from the ashes of corruption, he spreads his wings,
A flame induction, this pain is nothing,
These are tears of joy, and thats saying something

Now he's in the clouds, Burning with new light
Now he's too fast, Now He's too Bright,
All because of her, she had taught him flight,
He taught her death, she taught him life
Seen the war wants the peace in, or something decent,
Now her view he's seen it, he takes the routes that are scenic
Speaks what he means, and how he means it,
Burning with fire in the sky as he streams it,
The Flight of the Phoenix

[Beltharean]

A black seal holds the contents of a blue letter. There is no insignia pressed into it's face, the wax compacted with a circular object devoid of any unique characteristic. There are two letters within.

Spoiler:

This is an anonymous submission. If it is chosen, please donate any and all funds to the coffers of the Hearthglen Mage Tower.

The second reads as follows, in the same scrawling cursive script:

Spoiler:

What a fickle thing,
to be under the wing,
Of loathing and desperation.
The walls of a conscience;
A hindrance.

It means little,
A contrived acquittal,
When guilt has festered deep inside.
The walls of a dying heart;
Now forced apart.

This atonement,
Why is there no sextant,
To lead me to its sweet embrace?
The walls of a friendship;
Now crumbling.

Unforgiven,
Not to see redemption,
In either this life or the next.
The walls of a fragile mind,
Now shattering.

[CappnRob]

(How dare something show up that arm-twists me into actually writing IC poetry for Cristovao. Now it'll never be just an informed ability!)

Cristovao di Silvio walked the streets of Hearthglen, making his way to the rather crowded notice board, looking to see if there were any updates on the freelance jobs the Crusade was offering. Instead, his eyes caught sight of... a poetry competition? How quaint! Finally, something that appealed to his interests.

And then he paused in thought.

...

...

"Damn!", he thought aloud. He suddenly remembered he has not written anything in months. Not since the draenei pilgrimage has his pen touched parchment. This will not do. he hurriedly rushed back to his rented inn room to begin brainstorming!

[DaveM]

Spoiler:

(( Still awaiting them judges. PM me, help vote winners ICly.

Also more beauty of the soul thrown into the Procustean bed that is language is expected!

[snarky]

A well-preserved, but otherwise unremarkable sheet of parchment can be found inside the submission box. The short poem is simply signed: "Aeromus, Mild Author."


"Though shackles bind me to the stone,
I know the traitor's hand to be my own.
Murderous forces betray the path,
to a god's own secrets that guide my wrath.
You should have just left me alone."

[Rigley]

Late at night a figure cloaked and shrouded by a cowl walked along, gaze darting about as the shadows of guardsmen and their skulking prey twisted through the night-- Turning about one another in some twisted game of cat and mouse. Hurriedly the figure approached the box, slipping a neatly folded paper in for submission.

Without a word he then made his way for the keep, head down.

Spoiler:

The following text is written on a aged piece of paper, the penmanship quite plain. There is no indication as to the writer, nor anything else save the poem itself.

Sanctuary

Long I rested in your halls,
My head supported by your walls.
The sunlight streaming through the panes
Of glass so fine, with ornate stain
So filled my soul with that sweet light
I prayed unto for pure respite.

But sheltering walls were then torn down
And my hands then brought them to ground,
Along with a misguided and hateful host
I sought the end of my peaceful post.

O simple page and simple pen,
The words which shall be writ herein
Are not an idle state of mind
But a mourning soul that holds a sign
Like a lighthouse's beam in the dead of night
O hear me now, lift up thy sight--
And be thou wary of the skies up high,
So hear these words; 'the end is nigh.'

O simple page and simple pen,
The words which I have writ herein
Are burdens being cast away
And hopes towards a brighter day.

So lead me not to walk astray
And Light protect me while I lay
For I have done now what is right
To myself, my friends and the Holy Light.
My soul is clean, and I look to you--
Light, do now what I cannot do.

[Delta]

Apologise not;
Ameliorate folly
Earnest endeavour

...Reads a laconic submission, penned with a heavy hand and by fingers unused to wielding the likes of a pen.

Spoiler:

Signed with a K in the bottom right corner.

[Aphetoros]

Wreathed in white, a short equestrian places from the white-gold mare a crisp envelope into the box. The trot of hooves beats away the night-time.

Spoiler:

Croon

I should wonder
Should Faith be my burden, what would I do?
Innumerable crimes in such a wicked name, all for his sake.
I recall their nurturing voice in my dreams, and let go of doubt.

Should Faith be my burden, what would I do?
Hang by hook, an upside-down sinner spitting sanguine bubbles of blood.
I recall their virulent voice in my nightmares, and I find fear.
Sometimes it is fear that instills divinity.

Hang by hook, an upside-down sinner spitting sanguine bubbles of blood.
I have seen my end, the eternity of darkness incarnate.
Sometimes it is fear that instills divinity.
My place in Hell is secured, but he may yet find Salvation.

With his life in their grasp, what more can I do?
But on with this sordid path, continue.

-Regards, A Friend.

[Fortwit]

A letter written very roughly,

Redemption,
A knights only hope.
A curse that can't be fixed,
Not even with noose rope.
-Keyus

[Joe2618]

A scraggy piece of paper written with neat hand writing.

"The souls of many rest on the bitter mans mind.
Tensing his arms, he can still feel the bitter sweet affliction.
For who can redeem their actions with the list of his crimes?
For this restless and poor man, redemption is ever sweet fiction."

A name is written at the bottom is marked as. "Threlk." Which is of course, Salamance.

[Sol]

Scrawled violently in jagged, wobbly script on a scraggy, stained rag of parchment are five lines of verse of a recognisably Orcish meter. The author's only identifying mark is a crudely stylised V hastily drawn in the top left-hand corner.

Honour lost? Worthless
But striving ever towards
Honour found? Never
The warrior without worth
Can live by his own values

On the back, in slightly more measured handwriting: Redemption? My ass.

[Krilari]

Spoiler:

The Road to Redemption

A man stands tall,
Robes upon his back,
Arms spread open to the mass.
Before him stands every beast,
The corrupt and their demons,
The murders and thieves,
stand before him with knives in-hand.

The robed man becond them forward,
calling them to follow him along a road less traveled.
Each takes their step, and then another,
making their way with knives in-hand.

Along the path, many of their kin come to stand,
Blocking, interrupting,
capturing and calling,
Calling back to the dark paths off of the road,
Some follow, returning to their shadows,
yet others stay, treking along the path.

While the knives are in-hand,
the man’s back turned, his arms non-existant,
Throat easy to slit by the murderer,
Yet even then he remains unscathed,
leading the bound and broken unto the end of the path.

There they stand,
the end at hand,
their dark bindings have been cast away,
their dark intents all the same,
Instead they are bathed in the Light,
naked to it’s truth,
they are baptized in redemption,
clothed in humility,
and soon sent to the start of the path,
to offer their open arms to the darkness once more.

-K.R.D.

P.S. -

If coin must be called,
Then grant it to a man more worthy,
More needy,
For my coffers are far too full.

[DaveM]

Spoiler:

((Final call for IC judges, anyone welcome! PM me. Absent volunteers, I will use a few non CotH-ers that will ICly e treated as generic NPCs participating in the judging.

Also, keep the awesome submissions coming.