Page 137 of Quicksilver
The frost blessed the morning.
The warriors faced their fate.
And thus begins our tale,
The Ballad of Ajun Gate.
Next to me, Fisher tensed. The muscles in his jaw popped. He let his head fall, his eyes abandoning the aurora and finding the snowy, compacted ground under his feet instead, as Lorreth's powerful voice flowed from verse to verse.
Back in the tavern, Lorreth claimed he’d once been a singer of middling talent. This performance was not middling. His voice was full of smoke and pain. The air itself seemed to weep as he flowed through his lament. The song dipped and soared, telling a tragic tale of impossible odds and heroic sacrifice, nearly every line paying tribute to Kingfisher. The male next to me didn't move a muscle, but he was hating this. His nostrils flared, hands shaking at his sides, and the song plowed on regardless.
The drake, he did stir,
Old Omnamshacry
observing the world
through ink-black, mad eyes.
The drinkers of night
pledged him death and decay.
That he’d feast on his foes
and the flesh he did flay.
So long as he rose
and he joined them in war,
against the Fae who protected
the sacred, blessed ore.
With glittering sharp scales
of gold and of red,
the drake, he consented,
and bidden, he fed.
The Fae in their towers
stood mighty.
Stood proud.
But soon they were scattered,
their fear shouted loud.
Dark wings shaded mountain
and blotted the sun.
And mad old ’Shacry,
