My Garden
How my talents are wasted on such base, brute butcher work! Mine is the grace of subtle swordsmanship, not heavy-handed cleaving. Mine is the ecstasy of penmanship, not this rote boorish torture. Ah well. All to the greater glory.
I am a warrior, ...
The Troubadour Page My Garden - on New World Guide Database of Lore
How my talents are wasted on such base, brute butcher work! Mine is the grace of subtle swordsmanship, not heavy-handed cleaving. Mine is the ecstasy of penmanship, not this rote boorish torture. Ah well. All to the greater glory.
I am a warrior, it is true, but I fancy myself part of the ancient tradition of the troubadour knight. I therefore must scriven to keep my mind sharp during these bloody doldrums.
In a half hour, I must rend a knave’s flesh until he offers up the truth. But for now, I will try my hand at romantic verse.
MY GARDEN
Before you, my passion was a root-bound garden choked with weed.
Before you, love was a cemetery devoid of seed.
But now your name bestows joy to the gloom.
Your name, once uttered, brings my garden to bloom.
For you, O celestial daughter
I water my garden with the wine of slaughter.
Romance by the blade,
My enemies unmade.
In every cold ear, I whisper your name.
And so you haunt the hearing canals of the dead.
Like the sea in a shell in a sandy bed.
I do believe this is my finest verse yet.
Sir Ozur
