"Ode to Regalia's Pride"
Benedict Yates-Varley
9th of November, 307 - Outside the City of Merkars'arh
AUTHOR'S NOTES
As I write this notation, we press on towards battle, which seems to be creeping closer with every momentous second. It beats in the hearts of every man and woman who is on this march, in these camps, and going to be in this battle. I've made various notes about not only my feelings going into this oncoming melee, but the environment around me, and the soldiers accompanying me. Inspiration has not struck yet for the lyrics of this Ode, but I imagine they will arrive during my trials on the chaos of battle. If I should perish, I have left the rhyming scheme, inital premonitions, and notes, for a well to-do author to pick up for me.
Benedict Y.V.
November 10th, 307 A.C. - The Morning After The Battle.
I have completed what I have called "Ode to Regalia's Pride". It was officially completed the night of the battle, immediately after we made our camp. What started as a poem, turned into a triumphant and realist take on my experiences within this battle. The horrors witnissed, the dead, cannot possibly be described to someone who was not there. However, I have done my best to capture the sense of phyrric success within these lines. I would hope that Ode gives pride to, not an esoteric nation or concept, but to the raw people of this Empire, who I was proud to serve next to in that bloody Moor. This is the victory of their determination, who I was honoured to share with, and may Ode also be a reminder to those we lost yestereve, and immortalize how brave they faced when up against utter Hell Incarnate. I've dedicated this Ode to them, and all of these united Peoples.
Benedict Y.V.
LYRICS
[Ode to Pride is sung in a very methodical, slow tonation, like an anthem of sorts. The syllables of most words are stressed, and pronounced quite methodically.]
[Could be sung to the tune of Auld Lang Syne if wished to be]
[Could be sung to the tune of Auld Lang Syne if wished to be]
Walls close all 'round,
The thunder sounds,
The Battle of Righteous Yore,
For here on Moor,
Thought not before,
We face the stark hor'ror,
A grey stampede,
His charge sing'ing,
Down jag'ged mountainside,
Meets with thee,
Air thick, murk'y,
Till we see Behesal's eyes,
Cannon! The fire!,
Rains 'cross the mire!,
We come to blows now deaf!,
Steel tears asunder,
Both son, and father,
Ev'ry man faces off with death!
Upon this field, once bright,
Scales block, the sky,
Heroes are forged in flame!
Now gone, from sight,
We mourn, and cry,
Those who fought, and those who died!
For what did we fight?
Was it land, or might?
Perhaps some ancient slight?
It was nothing, so snide,
To the dead, we shan't lie,
Each man fought for his pride!
