The Plan

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