Mago’s Folly
In the van of Tol-Calan,
Many guards there were sent,
A moth host at dawn they ran,
Imbued of a certain hubris, went.
In terror forth they fled,
Driven on without hope to turn,
Unto wheeling destiny they sped,
Crossing bridges they’d never return.
Silver rider with missive on steed,
Hooves thundering forward they clout,
No one there to lead or tame the stampede,
No one to heed, that missive sent,
And save the rout.
Masthead of the forlorn,
Rushing into the morning sun,
Oh, mercy on ennobled firstborn,
Who yearns for victory in every deed done.
Mago from helm rasps,
A sortie to breach the night,
Young master will not grasp,
His own very end at sight,
Defying that blight.
With eyes of fire,
Eyes of dread,
Eyes to coax alive,
The dead,
The young man smote the dawn.
With myriad followers in tow,
On he pressed without rest,
His treads where many cannot go,
Putting borders to the test.
The lines dividing earth from star,
The membrane of the dark,
He tries his force against the leaguer,
Til at last he stares into the stark,
Those unmade parks,
Creation apart.
Now our intemperate creature,
Burns and ranges ever forth,
Our dear, dread Mago,
The Nighthelm’s folly.
Where once in terra there is a tear,
That bridges the worlds as one,
There rides Mago and his men,
Until their fated deed is done.
The Emergent Sea 