Tuesday, November 16, 2010

In Response to "The Shadow Scholar"

Is it okay to say that this guy is kind of my hero? Probably not, but I'll say it anyway.
While I do understand, that the English department might find the idea of creating an independent study around editing a novel laughable, I believe that they should have at least considered it. Some of the teachers I've had would be willing to tackle such a task. if even one student is willing to go that extra mile, it reflects well on the teachers and teaching community as a whole. It might also inspire other students to follow in the student's footsteps.
That being said, cheating is still wrong, and the education system is not entirely to blame for this phenomenon. The American sense of entitlement goes a long way to support this kind of behavior. "I deserve to graduate, because I'm in school, and I paid for this."
You (the archetypal "you") paid for a chance to succeed and work your tail off. If you didn't do that, you "deserve" to flip burgers or better yet switch places with a kid in Africa or Indonesia who works harder than you but will NEVER have the opportunities you have.
(Wo)Man up and buckle down.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

David, The Goliath

Hey all,
Well here is a minor re-draft of a story, which I posted here a while ago. I hope you enjoy it better this time around.

David was born to the Bloodstone Clan in the Godless Glaciers. He was named for the shepherd boy that killed the first hero of his race: Goliath the warrior. Goliaths believed in honoring their enemies, especially if they overcame great odds to win. Even so, David was not a common name among Goliaths as it denoted a great victor. Only the augurs were allowed to grant this title to a newborn. His parents were very proud to birth such a babe. He was a healthy 28 inches long and 20 pounds. His parents were not thrilled, however, when the augurs took their son to the sacred cave to be trained there – away from outside distractions. David was to become a fact toter or something, his father would drunkenly recall. What did my son need facts for? He would ask, he had an axe and could break any humanoid’s skull in his fist, what else did he need to know?
David’s mother didn’t take it much better, but her strict warrior training prevented her from complaining too loudly. After all, she didn’t want to lose her position as a Guard of the Sacred Flame. It was the highest position a woman could attain in the Bloodstone clan.
David set himself apart from his colleagues at the augurs’ temple. His quick mind would make him an excellent monk so that he could one day join the order of the augurs, but his attention wandered often and swiftly. He could best any student in a quick fight, but longer matches wore him down. When David wasn’t sparring, he would visit the Magorium and study cantrips and utility spells with the other fledgling wizards, but after an hour the books would lose his attention, and he’d be off to the next activity. The only training that kept him occupied for more than an hour at a stretch was Rogue training.
David would run along balance beams and swing from ropes for hours before getting to the chest at the end, disarming the trap, and stealing the completion certificate. David completed the Rogue training day after day during his recreational time. After he could do it blindfolded, he stopped.
After a few years of training, there was very little to keep David entertained. The augurs told him that he was a Factotum by nature, which would set him apart from his clan for the rest of his life, but that Factotums sometimes returned when the Bloodstone’s need was great. Until that time, David was told to venture out into the world and make his clan proud. David picked up his sack of miscellaneous food stuffs and asked if he could take some items from the armory. The augurs consented mostly, David suspected, because they wanted to be rid of him. His short attention span drove the focused monks up the walls (sometimes literally).

For years David wandered the high places of the North without purpose. He joined with several mercenary groups, adding intellect to muscle to achieve his objectives. As his talents grew, he became more interested in using brain over brawn to achieve his goals. This, he knew, further separated him from his fellow Goliaths, but didn’t care. They had disowned him already.
In the North there was precious little work. Often David went without work for months on end. His hunger made him brutal. He developed a short temper to match his attention span. If negotiations failed to yield results in a few minutes, he would simply turn to bullying and mugging to get his way. He never killed if he could avoid it, but if food was scarce enough or the promised take heavy enough he would not shirk from that option. Among his fellow highwaymen he earned a reputation as “The Hand that Feeds” because he would share his spoils in exchange for an oath of allegiance in the future.
Woe be to anyone who did not keep his oath! After a few foolhardy bandits failed to keep their oaths, David’s title was changed to simply “The Hand.” He served out highway justice ruthlessly. He sneaked up on those who failed to keep their oaths and strangled them in their beds.
One day, The Hand was patrolling the largest trade route within a hundred miles of the Godless Glacier. This was his big break. He had caught wind of a big shipment due to come through that week. The shipment was a relief package sent to the dwarves living deep inside the Glacier range. That meant a couple things to David: food, first and foremost; healers, which were always in high demand; and potions. David called in all his favors to assemble a crew large enough to handle this job. He would distract the caravan drivers while the stealthier members of the group would sabotage the wagons. The archers would then pop up from the snowy wastes and volley fire the caravan. Four sharpshooters were chosen to eliminate the drivers of the front- and back-most caravans, effectively blocking the caravan in. Somehow, two alchemists had come to be in the Hand’s service; they had been busily making smoke sticks to mask the fight the numbers of the band. They would break the smoke sticks in the center of the caravan, while the Hand summoned the wailing souls of those who died along this path. In the cloud of confusion the stealthy members would have free reign to backstab as many guards as they could. The Hand would use his uncanny ability to fight blindly at the front of the caravan. Perhaps he would shoot gouts of flame from his hands to set the front coach aflame. He hadn’t yet decided. The plan was set, victory was nigh at hand.
Snow dropped heavily to the ground, hushing the earth like a mother would her swaddled child. The Hand saw the caravan lumbering towards the ambush point. They would be here in less than an hour. David produced some kindling from his hefty pack and rolled a small boulder into the center of the path.
By the time the caravan showed arrived, a warm fire crackled merrily, casting mad shadows across the white snow-covered boulder. The Hand sat straight-backed as the augurs had taught him. “Hail, wanderer.” The caravan mistress cried out. The Hand sat unmoving. “Hail, wanderer!” She called out again, agitated. The Hand remained stationary while he waited for the last wagon to stop. “I say,” she began, “if you do not answer my call at once, I shall have your head by order of the king.”
The Hand ponderously raised himself to his feet. “You’re welcome to it if you can reach.” He laughed. The caravan master turned so white as to be almost imperceptible in the snow. “No need to panic, missy. Come, join me for a drink. It’s a foul night to be riding.”
The woman turned red at being addressed thus. “It is day not night, and I will thank you not to offer your filthy spirits to either me or my men, sod.” She said haughtily.
“My men or me.”
“My men or me. You said ‘me or my men.’ That’s improper grammar.” David looked straight at the flushed caravan driver. “Even an idiot giant like me knows that, missy.”
“Kill him.” The Caravan mistress commanded.
David shrugged and sat down, legs crossed, hands resting lightly on his knees. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He said to the two approaching soldiers. They paused then continued their advance. The Hand changed his voice to a deep baritone and shouted. “The dead rise to protect their speaker!” The keening wail of a thousand dead whistled through the windswept waste. Smoke billowed from the center of the caravan.
A driver shouted, “Fire!” The archers complied. The caravan mistress fell to the ground, blood welling from her throat. Chaos reigned. David rose and drew his Greatsword in one swift motion, felling the soldier closest to him then waded into the mêlée. Cries of death rang out as blood stained the unadulterated snow.
The Hand listened appreciatively as the battle raged around him. He focused. He was the eye of the storm, chaos billowed about him like a cloak. Everything was going exactly as planned. Something interrupted the Hand’s blood drenched reverie: a cart carrying vials of orange liquid. David wracked his brain to place the obviously viscous substance. “Alchemist Fire!” He shouted. A knife slid into his muscular calf as he made the realization. The Hand spun around, fire in his eyes. The flames spread through his body and erupted from his finger tips, smiting the fool rogue full in the chest. David prayed to the first god that came to mind for healing. Pelor’s healing jolted through his body, ejecting the lodged dagger in a gleam of light. The Hand rushed to the volatile cart, seeking to push it away from the valuable load of potions and food.
Panicked horses kicked at anything that came too close. A helmet from one of the guards – now unconscious – careened towards the explosive cart. David threw his shield into the path of the helmet and miraculously deterred the helmet from its deadly course. The Hand praised Olidimarra, goddess of luck, for such a remarkable save. David put his brawny shoulder to the cart and began to move it away from the booty just as he realized that the helmet had flown straight up.
His realization came too late.
Fire knocked The Hand flat on his back. Clouds of steam shot into the sky. Pain blinded David. The shockwave ripped through his massive frame, and when it collapsed, so did the world.

“When I came to, my left eye was useless, charred ash, but even with a missing eye I could see that the booty was gone. My rudimentary knowledge of survival told me that my ragtag crew had won – the note attached to my bare chest didn’t hurt either. ‘We won at the expense of our leader. Joyous day! Our treachery worked. We are free of the tyrant. Sic semper tyrannis.’ I recognized the flowing elven script as that of the Pro Letariat – the jerk. The Pro Letariat had always thought my methods heavy-handed. He claimed that the people ought to rule themselves or some such griffoncrap. His ideas had gotten him exiled from his grey elven homeland – as well it should! Normal people are fools and imbeciles. He was an empowering speaker though; I have to give him that. Apparently some others from my team thought so as well, which would explain the knife I got in my leg from a foolhardy rogue.
“Once I got my bearings, my next order of business was to track and kill the Pro Letariat. The Pro Letariat would rue the day he crossed me.” The Hand downed his mug of dark stout in one quaff. “That’s the stuff!” He stood and ran his hand over his charred left eye socket. “Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have some business of which to take care.” The Hand bowed unsteadily to his drinking compatriots and headed upstairs.
Eight hours later he returned downstairs with an Arcane Mark covering his ruined eye. The Hand smiled at the reactions of the bar patrons as they gazed upon his intricate tattoo. The red mark stood in stark contrast to his granite grey skin. The hand faced palm out with the thumb wrapping over his left cheek. Around each digit wrapped a design. Coiled about the thumb was a black dragon, horned head pointing towards the palm. A jet of shimmering green acid erupted from its toothy maw splashing against the final ridge along the base of the thumb. Ruby red slits gleamed in the abyssal sockets. A great sword lay along the pointer finger, point down. The straight guard gleamed blue as under a winter sun. An icy gem adorned the pommel, winking with a cold, deadly light. The middle finger depicted a blizzard over a wintry wasteland. If one looked hard enough one would see the faint outline of a giant creature nigh invisible in the windswept snow. Along the ring finger golden ivory twined gracefully about the knuckles. The pinky finger denoted pure simplicity. A plain iron band encircled the finger, constricting its movement. The palm covered the gaping hole which had once held an eye. A burning river of lava flowed between two onyx pillars. In the middle of the river stood a thin emerald dais upon which sat a large, impossibly balanced tourmaline. The yellow jewel winked purple in the Hellscape covering any trace of the empty socket. The Hand had his calling card now: the Arcane Mark.
The search for the Pro Letariat was an arduous one. No matter how fast David gathered information, Pro managed to be one step ahead. Finally, the Hand had tracked the Pro Litariat to Feldcrest, where he came to sell the remainder of the stolen potions. David burned to collect his share of the loot – with bloody interest.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Second Person

Now and then, I get slightly off track with my revision, so I write something peripherally related. In this instance, I wrote a short story about one of the main characters in _Wizard Storm_. Nailo Thamior is a character cloaked in mystery as much as he is in darkness. He's a mean son of a gun, but why? This short story illuminates that question a little, while stretching my second person point-of-view muscles a bit.

“My name is Nailo Thamior, and I will have my revenge.” With that, the hooded patron next to you slams down his mug and storms out into the slashing rain.
You take a long draught of your stout, savoring the warmth the beer brings. A female Halfling skitters out the door after the hooded stranger muttering, “I wish he hadn’t done that.” The door swings shut, leaving the rain out in the cold. The tavern resumes the normal hustle and bustle. You hear crockery clank in the backroom. Here and there, patrons call out for another round of the surprisingly good house stout or a platter of stewed meat. You sigh and focus on shaking off the cold. Your mantle drips steadily around the barstool. Why did bar counters always have to be so far from the fireplace? You look into your empty mug, grab your now-missing neighbor’s mug, and walk over to the fire place. A Tiefling looks up at you and scoots over so you can sit. You shrug off your mantle, sling it over the drying line before the fire, and sit. The Tiefling nods at you and resumes polishing his flute.
You gaze into the fire and absentmindedly sip your stolen stout as the Tiefling begins to play. The flames dance to the jig. For a moment, the flames are a woman. She twirls once, blows you a kiss of flame, and then disappears. You blink and turn to the Tiefling. He winks overtly at you. “Tricks o’ the trade, mate.”
You scoot away from the Tiefling slightly and look into your mug. By Olidimarra! This mug is almost empty. You squint. Something floats near the surface. You reach in and pull out a crumpled piece of parchment. You read: “Slam down your mug as you say ‘I am Nailo Thamior, and I will have my revenge.’ Your money is payment is under the tree by the well east of town.”
You look around, crumple the note into your pocket, and grab your mantle. The slashing rain makes your progress to the well soggy and bitterly cold. A strike of lightning illuminates a small lump against the base of the tree. A sack! Perhaps filled with coins? You look around furtively and grab the sack. The sack jingles as you heft it. You grin. It’s your lucky day.
As you open the sack, gold coins sparkle in the lightning. A piece of wood seems to be in the middle of your gains. You gingerly try to pull the wood out, but it threatens to spill your gold into the ankle-deep mud. You set the sack down and scoop gold into your pockets. After a few handfuls, you touch something sticky.
Suddenly, a twig snaps behind you. You bolt, instinctively protecting your gains. As you look over your should you see three torches surround the tree where you got your booty. Thank Olidimarra for the rain! It will take ages for them to follow you through the muck. You look ahead again. A flash of lightning illuminates a body hanging from the tree in front of you. You freeze.
“You really ought to stick to your own mug.” A gravelly voice says behind you. After that you remember only blinding pain and distant shouts.
* * *
You awake with a pounding headache. The smell of filth cloys the air. You push yourself to your feet and look out of the cell.
“Glad to see you’re awake.” The Halfling from the tavern says. “I was afraid the people would be robbed of their hanging.” She paces in front of your cell. “I have to admit, that little ruse of yours back at the Three Horse Tavern really distracted me.”
You blabber something incoherent.
“Ah, yes. The healer said it might take some time for you to regain speech. Got quite a nice bump on the head from a lumberjack, what got lost in the storm. Says he caught you with a pouchful of coin and blood on your hands.” She strikes a match against the stone wall. “Pretty clever altering your appearance to look like a human, Thamior. Advantage of your dubious heritage, I suppose.” She lights an hour candle. “Seeing the judge in two hours. Not much of a trial, just keeping appearances. What with those murders across three territories, and the bard what says you got all acting strange, avoiding talking like. I suppose that gives you about three hours to live.” She cuts a notch at the third line on the candle. “The Gaoler is preparing your last meal as we speak. With extra spit.” She walks out and closes the door, leaving you with only the candle that marks the approach of death as light.
You stalk your cell for almost one notch on the candle. In an effort to slow the approach of death, you kneel and blow out the candle. As you try to get up, a foot pushes you flat. A gravelly voice speaks. “I apologize, kid.” Silence. “If you had known her – my wife,” the voice pause reverently, softly, “you would understand.”
Rages pounds in your ears, loosens your tongue. “Who are you?!” You shout.

“I am Nailo Thamior, and I will have my revenge.”

Reading List Update 2

Well, I finished Sex and Dating, so now I'm reading _Das Schloss_ (slow going) and _The Irregulars/Roald Dahl and the Wartime British Spy ring in America_. It's a great book. I don't normally have much interest in non-fiction pieces, but this is superbly written and quite interesting. I highly suggest it.

Also in the interim of updates I have read a multitude of short stories. If you get a chance to pick up a few short stories from Thomas Mann (e.g. "Der kleine Herr Friedemann," "Tod in Venedigt," etc.) or Franz Kafka ("Before the door of Justice," "Das Urteil," etc. I would highly suggest it. Or if poetry is what you're gunning for, I would suggest Rainer Maria Rilke or Bertolt Brecht.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Reading List Update (the first one ever)

Since I promised you all a reading list, here it is:

I'm currently working on
_Das Schloss_ by Franz Kafka (in original German)
_Dragonwing_ by Margaret Weiss and Tracy Hickman (in English, two of the best Fantasy novelists ever)
_Sex and Dating: Questions you wish you had answers to_ by Mindy Meier (English, great book about relationships)

and that's it for now.

New Revision!

Hey all,

Sorry for the irregular updates. I'm sure you all know how finals weeks go. I'm happy to announce that I'm back in action starting yesterday. Unfortunately, I'm also only in the handwriting stage of things right now. This means it will be a while before you all get to see the shiny new draft of Wizard Storm! However, I assure you that bits of this draft will find themselves posted in a few weeks time. In the meantime, I ask you all to enjoy a few bits of poetry.

God's blessings

The Grey Everday

Clanking dishes replace dreams
of lingual proficiency. Patrons
coming and going without ado.
Without “Thank You”s.

A TV blares in the only language
they speak.

“Oxi-Clean! Cleans with the power of Oxygen!”
You think, what will we breathe?

It’s closing time. You turn the TV off,
let the people scurry into the grey evening.
An old patron once said she remembered the sun.
“Sunsets,” she said, “were fucking beautiful.
Even for us beneath Towers of Industry.”

It would have been nice to see some reds, oranges
and blues streaking across the sky like the news
banners, that spout nameless tragedies.

You shrug as you
heft the shears
for shearing
the largest stacks of Letterhead.
You measure once.
Cut twice.
Put your name on documents
of Shame:
Names are for those who make them.

You turn off the lights,
lock the doors,
slide fast the grates,
go back to where you came from –

Chauffeur to Venus

What? No! distance – it’s fine.
We can handle it.
Besides, it’s only 100 miles.
Less than two hours.
Not far at all.

I like to drive. (with-
I mean alone.
I like to drive alone.
What? No. I don't miss your cheek,
warm against my arm while you doze.
Really! I enjoy driving. -you)
Alone. Yeah.

I do.

Oh? I'm
glad you like it.
Maybe I'll leave my arm with you.
(Maybe I'll start leaving bits of myself
A Hand to open pickle jars,
Lips to dry your tears
I never really have to –
My chest to lay on
- Alone?)

Go back

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Sorry for the Hiatus

Hello to all the wonderful who put up with the mad and intermittent ravings if this humble (almost) madman. As you all can imagine, school gets in the way sometimes. I have actually done quite a bit of writing, but most of it has been in German. However in the past two days I have spent around 8 hours pounding out a semi-skaldic epic. I hope you all enjoy it.

Epic of the Blinded One

Lo in the days of old,
of Arthur and the Helm
of Blinding Faith, Guard’ans
of the Balance arose
to face the dreadful Plight. 5
‘Twas said that a man tipped
Balance ‘twixt Good and Ill.
This man awoke the Dead,
wrested the immortals
from their slumber. 10

So it was in the days of Old.
All was lost, the sun grew cold.
He wandered the wind whipped
wastes of white. Trees adorned:
Armor of dross and ice. 15
A Man of Pride did rise.
He sought the artifacts,
those godly gifts of Grace.

That man of Ice-sharp eyes,
wintered breath. His will froze
the tide so that he might
break the crashing waves of
that Usurper –Waker 20
of those that Slumber. Ice
Eyes rode upon c’rrupted
Knights of Arthur, in those
days when already lost.
He fought bedeviled knights; 25
round table he did toss.
Winter breath set captive
souls free. He claimed the Blade
of Lore – sword of Arthur.
Ice Eyes chased the Waker. 30
He was entranced by the curséd
gaze o’ he who challenged gods.
Many times did As-disk
rise before the Winter
breath’d warrior awoke, 35
hands deep in the blood of
innocence. Crumpling
to the ground, the Wielder
of Arthur’s honor pled
his penance to the gods: 40
Balance and Good and Ill.
Tyr, that old Judge, deemed what
all found acceptable.
The god of the hand struck
the sockets of Ice-Sharp 45
Eyes blind. Poetry-Tyr
gifted the Blinded One
with a helm. The Helm of
Blinding Faith. “He who can
not see in Darkness is 50
truly blinded.”

So it was in the days of Old,
when all was lost and nights were cold.
He wandered through thicket
and glazed glass glade. To face 55
the Tigermen – Rakshasa -
on Steeds of Flame, melting
swaths through the air and plain.

The Blinded One faced brave
the enemy, e’en struck 60
with poison arrows. He
fell to Hrym’s Brow, his arm
lame as Maiméd-Odin.
The Nightmare Rider bore
death down on him, flowing 65
fire following behind.
Wintered Breath extended
his bloodied blade, gave gods
his mind. Blaze of As-fire
spewed from his shining sword, 70
skewered the steed, stopping
the slayer. Slowly his
salvation struck him.
Strength-Odin renewed him,
standing him aright. 80
Serpent-gift slithered ‘way.

So it was in the days of Old
All was lost and the Sun grown cold.
He wandered through dangers,
drifted through whiteroads. 85
Rumors of the Waker’s Ill
spread to the stout statured.
Demons assailed the Chain.

The Wielder of that Sword
of Light shone in the deep. 90
He found those stout hearted
folk slain by slavering
Loki-spawn, their sin to
succeed. The few dwarves that
survived, slaved at simm’ring 95
mines. Their chin-pride singed ‘way.
Scorchéd pride spawns searing
justice. Sword-wielder offered
a chance to claim honor.
They clamored for conflict. 100
They cast off their chains to
defend Chain of Being.
They fought the demons and
destroyed. Demise deigned turn
none away. Dwarves 105
dedicated to th’Deep.
That Shining Light recovered
the Chain. He secured it
to the safe Book-Thor’s
Reliquary. Book-Thor 110
bequeathed the Blinded One
a boon for’his brave battle
of Balance. The Book of
Blood, a cursed artifact
written to grant a last 115
chance to who must rebuild
Balance. Winter Breathéd
Warrior would wage war
against that evil Wizard,
Waker of Slumberer. 120

So it was in the days of Old
All were lost and the sun was cold
He wandered through dangers,
drifted upon whiteroads
Demons of dross dying 125
destroyed for the Balance.
The Sword slashed a swath so
that all might be re-found.

Lo, did he chase Waker
of the Slumberer, to 130
a Keep of Cauldrons and
Cicatrices. Usurper
of the Balance had prepared
himself for the Wielder –
that Bringer of Light. 135
Warriors of Wrath waited
for the watchful Winter
breath’d Blinded One. He fought
with honor, he the Hail
of Holy blows. His Blade 140
bowed only for Balance.
No warrior waited
long beneath his wrath-blade.
The warriors were cleaved
in twain. 145

So it was in the Days of Old,
The As-disk lost, hearts grew cold.
He watched for Warriors,
Shining Sword of Salvation
shone in the Deep. Justice 150
to the unjust. Just his
duty to Balance.
And still he descended

He descended the Deep
Stair to th’darkness beyond
blindness, but he could see. 155
His title the Wearer
of the Helm of Blinding
Faith. “He who cannot see
in darkness is truly
blind.” The Wielder of that 160
hopeful Sword said. Long years
did the Dark-sighted one
descend, dipping, drooping
‘neath Time’s dilapidated
hand. At long last, he reached 165
the bottom, an aged man.
His sight was no less sharp,
for he saw true – a gift
from shining god – Odin.
His muscles were weakened 170
by the weathering and
withering of wasteful
Time. He could no longer
heft the Blade, heavy as
it was with hope. Then the 175
Slumberer – that old Dragon –
did speak. “You have traveled
an age to find my servant,
the Waker. He is gone.
Time is past. His era 180
has ended, as has yours.
Mine has begun. I am
the Slumberer of Souls.
You cannot see me, servant,
but I survey your shallow 185
sockets, sagged with sorrow
and strain. Sliced from sockets
for your sins. Surrender
yourself to Solace. Give
up the Ghost.” 190

So it was in the days of Old
the Wielder lost, the sun grown cold
He who wandered the wastes,
now descends to denounce
Usurper of Balance. 195
Demise deigns to turn none
away. The Wielder grown
old must too his debt pay.

The Hero – that Blinded
One – surrendered no thing. 200
He brought out the Book of
Blood, read the pages with
his hand. Strength-Odin him
again renewed. Hefting
his hope, he heaved it at 205
Slumberer. Blood blasted
from the blest arm. The Blade
burrowed into the bone
of that Ancient Dragon.
A roar of rage resounded 210
through the death-thick air.
“Balance must be restored.”
The Book of Blood flew in
the air, as the Dragon
came crashing towards the bleeding 215
battler for Balance. The
Holy Blade of Arthur
was wrested from the Slumb’rer’s
side. Streams of sun shot from the
Blinded One’s eyes. The Light 220
lanced that old Dragon, life
leaked from the Slumberer.
The Hero and Dragon
latched together, light with dark.
The Balance was maintained. 225
Good for Ill. Ill for Good.

So it was in the days of Old,
all was lost and the sun grew cold.
The Blind One saw, his aim
was true. He slew that Old 230
Dragon with that Hope:
The Sword of Arthur. Book
of Blood claimed the Balance.
Both were embraced by Death.

So it was in the Days of Old. 235