[The Heroic, Romantic Poems of Palamon of Saint-Allard]

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[A bundle of largely disorganized parchment papers, stacked on top of each other, some wet with ink, some dry, some of them stuck firmly in-between.]

[mazzz]

[OOC - Regular Text:]

[hide]Fairest in yon glebe of honour'd rose-hall
A flower bludy red, blowing bold-bright
In times of peace, the flower of The Knight!
Yells "gardyloo!" the sweeting's ballad call.
O'er mountain-top rode death at their tail,
Of ash and dark-- yet holding hearts to faith,
"'Tis time" says all, "To smite that wretch'd wraith!"
Yells "gardyloo!" in victory's wassail.
In days 'ere past, their gilded glories grand,
March they upon a fort of paynim host
And pythoness with fell witchcraft to boast!
Yet just as lief, the lairds held high their brands,
With final oath to holy Wheel above,
Yell'd "gardyloo!" and charged to Krak thereof!

Sonnet by Palamon of Saint-Allard, Balladeer-Aspirant[/hide]

[mazzz]

[OOC - Regular Text:]

[hide]Many heard the call, the squall, the coming brawl;
From Ephia's Well, led a host past Coin-Gate's wall--
A mighty band of heroes at helm and rear
As valiant and sharp as the honoured White Spear!

So raise your tankards, my friends and quaff them deep!
For victory's ours in yon Cinquefoil Keep!
Accurst is the wretched Pra'Raj's deceit
And Hapia's Waters are ever so sweet!

So faith to thee, our guiding Mother most fair!
To You, our prayer o'er the Devil's Djinn we share,
And as the old Rose's Greats ballads have detailed
"Gardyloo!"-- the Heroes once again prevailed!

Couplet by Palamon of Saint-Allard, Balladeer-Aspirant[/hide]

[mazzz]

[OOC - Regular Text:]

[hide]The ash coats all that I can think of and see,
From the wastes to the ends of the Pearl-Clad Sea.
Gold and bright are the domes of Hapia's Well,
From the bloodshed its vultures' bellies swell;

And they shall circle around the walls and feast,
For we have not journeyed long this far northeast
To not spill blood of the wretches and foemen-
For the wicked, that banner's a grim omen!

Crimson red like dried blood, black as deep as night,
The descendants of many a valiant knight.
Marching far and long from the City-That-Was;
The Cinquefoil Rose, stole life from Death's own jaws!

Now they sit here, wassailing the days of old,
But fret not friend, for the kettles' yet not cold;
Their grand tale has yet to find its final end,
Mayhaps, for their flag and cause your heart you'll lend![/hide]