The Plan

((OOG: The following is written in elegant cursive))

Fear is an art not yet perfected,

A feat which cannot go neglected.

And so I've decided to put to the test

Those you've not yet groomed to beat their chest.

What my plan entails, you will soon receive a hint,

Paid for with not too much more than some mere pocket lint

Beginning in a town where estranged family dwells,

In public mockery, the hottest of all the hells,

Pretending to sup on wine in silence while the town abides

But is it he who holds the sword or holds the gold decides?

We begin to answer the very query in the home of the headstrong

While you ask yourselves the question... what could possibly go wrong?

~The Artist

Given what we just went through with the Living Paint situation, count me intrigued, "artist." It is not often we have such bizarre poetry left on our notice board.

Observe, good folk, a mysterious poet
Whom through simplistic rhymes presumes to know it all
But only proves their talent to be small
And their mastery of words to be weak

This fool makes public a threat
To those whom are seen as being wet behind their ears
And pontificates upon the topic of fears
As if presuming their intended prey to be meek

So I would urge you to move on
No one would notice you were gone
Your verse simply begs
To have you sent home, tail tucked 'twixt your legs
As I continue my literary roasting streak

-S

((OOG: Not Angeliana))

Bugger off. Travance already has an Artist, and I be better than thee.

~ D

I find it is quite clear to me that you are lacking lyrically
I imagine there's more you'll be lacking
By testing those with Travancian backing

However, I am intrigued by ye who fiddles with riddles
Even though your 'plan' is shite in the middle of worthless drivel

I'll end this with a warning, I've got no need to pro-long
Bring us harm and I will show you what can go wrong.

P.S.: Your third to last line makes no sense grammatically, but it would alter the flow if you were to add another word. Your use of metaphoric rhetoric throughout the piece does slightly make up for it, however. I'm not entirely sure why I'm critiquing you, but it's a lot better than cowering in the fear you mention in your opening stanza, isn't it?

The young in season he puts to the test,
upon this moon of Valor's Rest.
If thee be older it may be wise,
to give the youth here a chance to rise.

To the artist, our young to vex,
careful be of purposed text.
For if Travance has done one thing,
its defeating Evil and the curse it brings.

In all may Valos watch and guide,
that thee all may work against his studied jest.
Our newest residents this Feast shall provide,
proof this artist is merely a pest.
So come and call upon our young,
for it is you, not them, who will be hung.

Scared witting, and biddings,
We babble a muck,
Critique his fasique, and lyrics,
What fun it would be....

A lesson. A lesson! To who we must teach? Be it you or myself; is the question we reach.

For you preach of art, where I preach of purpose. So we will play your game my friend.... I will have fun, and they will have rope. Lets not imply knots, such as simple folk. You see, you see! What a fun joke!

So my friend.... answer me this.

Who are we?

To those who I teach, as well as this message reach. You are to join in this fun. Your next teaching; this one!

Oh isn't this fun my friends, isn't it fun?

In Hope and Light we conquer Fear that day;
The gods protect, sustain along our way
And those whose Faith aligns with Life and Light
and Spirit, Law and Love, your hearts keep bright.
At Ten the bells will ring and Mass is said
To give us Courage and face the trials ahead.
At Dragon's Claw assembled early morn
In us the way to conquer fear born:
Courage

[OOG: Grigori pauses as he walks by the board, then takes a closer look. He frowns, makes a "tsk" sound, then walks over to a free table to pull out rough paper from his satchel. He scribbles on it for the next several minutes, occasionally pausing to think. Finally he gets back up, walks back over to the board, and pins up the parchment with an air of contempt. Anyone who reads it can see that, in contrast to the weather-stained appearance of the forest hermit and the poor quality of the (apparently homemade) paper, the writing is in a neat and courtly style, and the verses are a decent imitation of a particular High Kormyrian poetic style favored by the nobility.]

Upon this moon the young are tested
(Mayhaps more apt to say "molested")
By threats from some upstart artist
Who thinks himself to be the smartest
But in this land, this great Travance
All should here look at this askance
What claim has he, beyond veiled threat
That he could cause the young to sweat?
This is Travance! A land of strength!
Even our young can fight at length!
Their only fear that I can see
Is foolish bucks might be carefree
A tiny threat, howe'er it plead
Can still yet cause a king to bleed
We would not want our brave young men
To risk a tiny cut again
Your threat is small, though likely real
Just not a challenge to our steel
For all I see is none too grim
Not with such art that shines so dim
What name you use does tell us much
About your mask that serves as crutch
A true artist would never need
To hide his face 'neath a terrible screed
A threat like yours? I can but scoff
'Tis clear your skills hail from a trough
Such as this, you claim as art
Yet what lies here is a sad start
Your rhymes are poor, your rhythm flat
Old men in woods do better than that!

With sincere appreciation and all the respect you are due,
The Old Man in the Woods

Dear Mr. Artist,

So many threaten
people living in Travance.
Your threats are poems.

I find it charming,
As far as any threats go,
But still very rude.

Everyone answers
With poems and rhymes as well.
I want to play too!

Here is my poem
To say I'm not scared of you:
You should leave here

Very very soon
Because Travance gets angry
When people make threats.

-Midori Suarez
Of Takasago Island
Daughter of Mercy

I'll keep it simple.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
You come after me
And I'll kill you