Songs of the Draconia

[anirbas]

anirbas
7/16/2004 1:09 AM 2 out of 23

dragon-1. a mythological monster, usually represented as a large reptile with wings and claws, breathing out fire and smoke 2. a fierce person; especially a fiercely watchful female guardian or chaperon 4. a large serpent or snake 6. any of a genus (Draco) of small tree lizards of SE Asia, with winglike membranes used in gliding from tree to tree...
see, dragons are among us, living in Asia...haha!

wyvern-dragon, serpent. in Heraldry a dragon with forelegs only, wings, and a barbed tail.




anirbas
7/16/2004 1:33 AM 3 out of 23

~Songs of the Draconia~

In another world,
neither mine nor yours-
in the tall, emerald grasses
of a sunshot glade.
A dragonet, cavorted and played.
Weaving, in, then out,
and all about,
an open air cave.
Created by the fretted arches,
a gigantic, bleached
skeleton, had made.
A set of bones,
the dragon toddler, revered.
From tip to tip, of
it's once lethally, barbed tail;
to it's sword pierced mazard.
His royal Draconia mother!
Brought down, by the
finest of Toledo steel.
This remorseless demise,
her final folly,
and only hazard.
Met at the hands,
of an all too human,
dragon hunter.
The dragonet,
wriggled and writhed,
around her fleshless bones.
Listening to the tones
of her phantasmic voice.
Spectrally singing songs.
Lullabies, of events to come.
And the portent,
of what her mate's son,
would do then...
when given,by
maturity, the choice.
To avenge her death,
and those of his,
more than one sibling.
Six she'd just born,
then lain.
Seeking a well deserved slumber,
from her labors pain.
Rudely denied the rest,
she sought in vain!
By a band of miscreants,
the Folk of Faery!
A preface of the battle,
that soon did wage.




anirbas
5/22/04 4:24 AM 34 out of 52

Fiercely that night,
his mother had fought
with unbound rage.
Then given,
her earthbound life,
to protect each
of her children.
Selflessly, that fateful day,
she'd violently held sway,
with a vespidic horde
of blithering fairies;
a blighted herd,
of the Son's of Yer,
those dastardly dark elves;
a village scorned, natural witch;
and a prayer protected,
king chosen, dragon hunter.
Giftless, puny humans,
and otherworld beings!
Why his mother, The Draconia,
could have lifted into
the starshot void,at any given time!
Left her graceless tormentors, behind.
If not, for her precious,
beloved, pit-buried nursery.
Incubating beneath
her gargantuan,
macropterous winged,
fire breathing,
sinuously long,
serpent's body.
In the end,
the dragonet,
would beg to differ,
with the bardic version
of her story.
She was not slain!
She was a powerful martyr!
This dragonet's,
ghost-tongued mother!





anirbas
7/16/2004 1:50 AM 4 out of 23

At eventide when pewter shadows vestured
the crowns and shoulders
of the trees circling
the silent glen,
the dragonet grew weary
from a long day
of solitary play.
Near his mother's ivory bones,
glistening platinum
in the silvern moonlight,
his head he would lay.
As her soft, spectral voice
would rise and float,
tendriling about her own
skeletal remains,
and her sword pierced mazard.
"Rest. Rest my sweet, sweet child."
Phantasmically she would croon.
"Rest after your long day of play.
As all little dragonets should.
Shh. Shush. Listen.
As I sing lullabies of a forgotten age,
of royal Wyverns,
and times that should have been.
When your father and I,
crossed and ruled the world stage,
side by side, together.
Sleep. Sleep my precious dragonet.
Dream visions of your destiny,
and the one that will now,
never be.
As the voices of your siblings slain,
join mine, in a ringing refrain;
with tones of angst
and boundless rage,
at their early demise,
ripped from the page
of life, as a direct result
of that odiferous dragon hunter.
May he roast in Hell!
He, the slayer of our last hope
of survival and the continuation,
of our royally ancient lineage.
He, cursed obnoxious human,
that trapped my corporeal body,
in Death's cage.
But, unlucky for him,
not my lust for revenge
and limitless rage."


anirbas
7/16/2004 2:11 AM 5 out of 23

Onward through out the rising of the moon,
she would speak, sing and endlessly croon.
"One of your sisters,
would have been your
majestic mate.
Had I lived to protect her!
And the others,
from the horrid fate,
of being dinner,
for more than one predator.
Now, thanks to that egotistical,
villanous dragon hunter,
the peeps of your unborn children,
you shall never hear.
In that respect, like your father, dear.
He,was absent at your birth,
due to a darth
of an accumulation of many years;
unable to protect me,
at my most vulnerable...
Many the spectral tears
I have shed for my babies;
both the dead and the undead.
So much he took from me,
vile human!
So much more he robbed of you-
your mother and protector,
your brothers and sisters,
your future mate and spawn.
He took my life,
with nothing more,
than a sword drawn.
But he left you one
of unending loneliness and strife.
Listen. Listen carefully,
my precious dragonet son,
hear me, my voice
as you feed, play
and slumber.
For someday, my son,
your father's heir,
you will grow into a
force to be reckoned with,
by and by.
And if you dare,
you will exact revenge,
when given the choice,
for this dragon hunter's folly,
and trangressions against
you and your family...
And never my child, trust any human.
To do so could be fatal,
for you and me..."
And thus he would sleep.
His mother's ecotoplasmic milk,
her need for bitter annihilation
and retribution,
extracted from the dragon hunter;
even unto his last born child,
whether son or daughter.

-Anirbas.

anirbas
7/25/2004 10:41 PM 14 out of 23

In a sylvan glade,
where the best laid
plans of a mere mortal man,
were wrought, lost and made,
a dragonet, transmorgriphed
into something more,
as he grew and played,
about the fretted archwork
of his mother's ivory bones.
His once flightless,
puny winglets,
with which he'd been born,
began to fulfill, their
macropterous possibility,
as he entered puberty.
His once baby fatted body,
began to elongate,
and muscles of liquid iron,
rolled to the surface,
of his scaly skin,
giving him,
a ripped look...
His hormones,
began to jump, jig,
skip and hop,
without abate,
nonstop.
Addling his head;
making his blood boil,
without reason.
As our dragonet grew,
into a changling.
No longer,
a cute dragon toddler.
But a draconic teenager,
entering his season,
of becoming,
before he grew into
a full fledged,
royal wyvern,
bull of a male.
With his maturing,
came the full knowing,
of the songs his phantasmagoric
mother had sung for him.
The seedling of retributional
rage she had planted,
had taken root,
and grown,
with the draconic teenager,
as well.
Her nurturing, maternal voice,
spectrally low, always there,
at the edge of his thoughts,
interrupting his careless play,
night and day.
But at last,
she had instilled in him,
an understanding,
of her need for redemption,
against the one,
who'd taken her earthly
life, otherwise known as,
the dragon hunter.
When he understood exactly,
what a wife
truly was.
And that thanks to
the heartless,
slayer of his mother,
and his own dreams,
indirectly,
he would never
have a mate,
with which to grow old,
as the peeps of their progeny,
echoed about the
tree ringed glen,
still left of center,
of Rohan.






anirbas
7/25/2004 11:08 PM 15 out of 23

With his growing anger,
against the dragon hunter,
mounting higher,
on a daily basis,
came the need, mysteriously,
to burn things.
At first he thought,
he'd lost his blithering mind!
Next he'd be seeing sprites,
dancing about his mother's stately
skeleton in the middle of the night!
Burn objects? What imagination, he
must have! And then, he stubbed his
clawed big toe,
and torched the north
side of the tree ringed glen,
to his amazement and chagrin.
Until he heard his mother chuckling,
spectrally whispering, "Good boy. Finally,
your first lesson, over and done!
Yes, the force is there,
within you, to incinerate the planet,
if you so chose to do. It is not,
your vivid imagination.
It is not an aberration.
We are all born with it,
and the ability, to wield it,
our own fiery sword,
against which,
no mortal man,
can stand.
Before the dratted
dragon hunter,
and his champion,
the nosey white witch,
that is!
Hurumph! Her and her cursed
spell of involucrum!
If not for it,
that wyvern slaying
b*stard, would be toast!
Crisped stiff as a charred timber!
And I, I would have never left,
this dimension, you are still in.
You, my son, would not be lonely,
pining for that which you cannot,
and will never have.
If not for her, too.
Never forget that...
I always wondered,
how dare she meddle,
in such affairs,
as were generally
none of her business.
She knew I was here.
Never bothered her before...
Umm, could be she was smitten?
Love at first sight and all that rot,
when she first spied his witlessness?
Hiding in the daylight, like a thief,
in the shadows on the edge,
of the glen?
Amazing, the thought
had not occured to me, before.
I believe humans to base,
for such a high minded
emotion as ours...
No wonder she became
such a danger
to me,
in the
twilight,
of my life.
A woman in love,
much less, a witch,
is a dangerous
commodity.
No less,fearless,
than a Berserking,
barbaric, wyvern murderer!
So, if happenchance,
you meet her,
in the not to distant future,
take her out, too.
Before she aids him,
in taking out you!"




anirbas
7/27/2004 4:42 AM 16 out of 23

And so, as children are want to do,
no less with wyvernic offspring,
did our teenaged dragon,
continue, to grow at
a fearsome rate of speed,
whence he'd entered puberty!
Every day,
coming closer, to the being,
that would implement
his spectal mother's
preordained visioning,
concerning him.
Time passed, slow
as a spring awakened snail,
for our draconic changling.
He filled his time,
practicing flying,
just above the
tree ringed glade,
as his mother's
disembodied voice, bade.
In the beginning,
this new found freedom,
this power of flight,
was intoxicating!
But, like the best,
of all species young,
soon he was bored again.
Wishing for some thing to do,
someone to listen to,
than his mother's
nagging monologue,
about what he should do,
whence he grew into
an adult dragon.
Like all teenagers,
he had started rebelling,
rearing up, at her ghostly advice.
So tired of audio-ing her irate,
trite intonations,
from an unseen dimension,
he could just kill himself.
If he could just figure out how.
Typical, dramatic teenager...
no matter the species.
Then one night,
approxiamiatly fifteen winters
of his young life,
as he circled about himself,
preparing to slumber,
into the secluded glen,
wandered a small being.
Skipping and singing,
over and above,
his mother's
sonorous diatribe.
Weaving in and out,
and all about,
the fretted framework,
of the dragon queen's
earthly, fleshless bones.
Lightly skimming her
tiny hand,
over the concave
curve, of more than one.
Until she stood,
at the tip of the
dessicated, sword embedded,
hornsheared mazard,
resting upon the ground.




anirbas
7/27/2004 5:04 AM 17 out of 23

No longer singing,
now the wee being,
was gently humming,
thoughtfully,
to herself.
As she ran,
her index finger,
over the finely carved
hilt of the Toledo steel,
impaled to the haft,
in the broad expanse,
of his mother's gigantic cranium.
Out of vagrant curiousity,
the wyvern spawn,
moved not an inch.
Unseen, there on the perimeter,
of the night shrouded, gladed
clearing in the forest.
Mistakenly, believing
the self-absorbed form,
was an enchanted
other world being;
a wood sprite,
of which his mother
had spoken,
not knowing,
she was the simple
child of a human.
His parent warned nemesis.
Wandering, lost
on her way home,
to her mother's hovel.
Attracted by the glimmer,
of the dragon hunter's sword,
in the moonlit glade.
What happened next,
stunned and shocked our beast,
to his draconic core!
As the alledged wood sprite,
clasped the hilt
with both her small hands,
and
Slith,
sang the voice
of the Toledo steel,
as she pulled it up,
out of his
mother's broad forehead,
at her impish will;
from the gashed
bony wound,
it had created,
and never since left.
Slith.
It trilled,
as it vacated the
confines of the royal mazard,
it had so grieviously
caused, such mayhem and hazard.
And for the first time,
in his young wyvern's life,
his mother's voice was stilled,
to his amazement!



anirbas
7/27/2004 5:33 AM 18 out of 23

Reflexively, the wyvernic youth
shook his head, in disbelief!
Not a day had gone by,
he had not heard the
grinding voice, of his mother,
inside his thoughts.
This action, drew the focus
of the wee being's round eyed
gaze to him,
and his here to fore,
unknown locus,
in the secluded glen.
And no longer,
with the voice of
his mother, telling him,
what to do,
he was blatantly confused!
But not she, or so it seemed.
She cooed in the moonlight,
still holding the sword,
once the dragon hunter's
finest of Toledo steel.
Then slowly approached him.
Letting go the sword,
with one hand,
causing her,
to drag it behind;
reaching out in his direction,
with the other;
palm turned up,
beseechingly,
questioningly;
as curious,
as he,
this
surprising
creature.
Now replacing,
his mother's grating tones,
with whispers of her own.
"Ooh, pretty, pretty dragon.
Mommy's told me about the likes of you.
Never thought I'd ever see one.
Nice dragon, may I pet you?"
And before the bumfuzzled
dragon could recover,
enough to reply,
even physically,
with a shudder,
of "no way";
the little being,
was stroking
his scalened snout!
Not a bit of fear,
in her demeanor.
Just friendship offered,
in her naive, ten year old,
gullibility...
Unaware,
of the peril,
she was in,
should the wyvern,
lose it's temper,
and forthwith,
decide to roast her!
"Nice wings, pretty, pretty dragon.
I bet you could help me find
my mommy's hearth and home.
Would you give me a ride,
high up into the sky,
so I can see,
which way to go?
Then I am sure,
I can find it,
on my own.
Would you?
Could you?"
And to his amazement,
he did just that.
Allowed her to mount,
his scaly neck,
just afore
his macropterous wings.
And up, up, up,
into the night,
he did comply,
with what he thought,
was a woodlands sprite;
and all the way home,
he did her fly.
Once she'd pointed
it out, by the by.
Her directioning,
punctuated,
by the bouncing
bubbles of giggles,
emitting from her lips,
at this ride,
and the thrill of it.
Not knowing,
should you get
a dragon, to let
you, it pet-
you then
become
it's
champion.

You have just met,
The Dragon Warrior...
but, that's another story.

Nir

anirbas
7/31/2004 10:00 PM 23 out of 23

Now came the time,
when our draconic youth's
path became intertwinned,
with that of the mistaken
wood sprite,
he thought had petted,
him that night.
And in removing
the sword of Toledo steel,
by her innocent childish will,
stilled the ragged,
raging voice,
of his vengance
seeking mother.
Of which he'd listend,
here to fore,
without choice...
From this point,
our wyvernic beast'
story picks up,
with The Dragon Warrior.

Nir.