Post by anirbas on Jan 2, 2008 17:24:53 GMT -6
7/30/2004 9:46 PM 1 out of 13
She stood
a bit taller
than five foot three;
almost five foot four,
in her bare feet.
Hands on hips,
eyes shining merrily.
Chesnut hair
falling in loose curls,
to her waist.
A question,
in her widened peepers,
as she regarded her mother;
then spake, sardonically,
one dark brow raised,
laconically.
"Let me get this straight,
my father's dear mate,
you're telling me,
I have an appointment,
with destiny?"
At this,
she giggled,
quite helplessly.
"To whit, to be
a Dragon Warrior,
no less?
And prithee,
giver of my life,
whom has always
sheltered me from strife;
taught me to turn
the other cheek;
to always show mercy;
to be not ashamed
if my eyes leak;
now you are telling me,
I am to be,
a flea-bitten, hardened
defender of the last
royal, living Wyvern?
My responsibility,
for life,
to do this?
Forsoothe,
for petting
this beast,
one night,
lost as a child,
in a glade?
Afraid,
of being alone?
Now, I have to defend
this dratted dragon,
from annihilation,
and it's species
total extinction?
But, why, dear one,
of my heart, my mother?
Why me?
I play violin,
and write poetry!
I live in my head,
in books of history!
I am not constructed,
emotionally or physically,
to reek havoc and misery,
upon or from, another human!
Not even for my dratted pet dragon!
As you call him, not me.
A pet is a dog,
who stays
near your feet;
leading of following
in your steps.
That does not describe Mergatroit.
He comes and goes,
just he pleases and wills.
Not me!
Frequently,
he hides from me,
the older he gets!
So, why me?
I am a verbal jester!
An aspiring court minstral
and entertainer!
Not a warrior!
So, why me, mother?
anirbas
7/30/2004 10:45 PM 2 out of 13
Her mother, eyed her
petulant daughter;
weighing her retort, carefully;
before speaking, evenly.
"Because you are my daughter.
That is why you, sweet giver
of my daily dose of laughter!
I have taught you honor,
standards, and morals;
even without your
sainted dead father,
may his soul rest,
peacefully,
'til I join him.
I know you are afraid!
As I would be, too,
standing in your skin!
If I but could,
I would gladly take your place!
But tho' this task,
requires an intelligent,
resourceful, weapons skilled
woman, like myself;
not a teenaged girl...
Alas, I am now,
a bit long in tooth,
my banner of protection,
over you, and your dratted dragon,
to unfurl...
This responsibility,
requires the strength
of a woman, betwixt
thirty and forty;
not an unblooded teenling,
nor a gullible maiden of twenty.
Nor, in that case,
a crone of sixty,
or more.
But whose counting?"
At her jest, she laughed.
Thereby giving her daughter
the opportunity,
to speak,
once more.
"But, Mother,"
she whined, pitiably.
"I have seen only,
twenty winters!
So, to whit, I cannot be,
this Dragon Warrior,
you speak, of me being,
so glowingly!"
Her mother, smiled patiently.
"It will take me
a decade or more to
prepare you, for your
own, self chosen quest,
my beloved only daughter,
and child.
With your training,
I will not be mild,
the best and better,
I can now do,
to protect you-
teach you,
to protect yourself...
If you are fortunate,
mayhap, even longer,
you and I shall have.
Before the folly of men,
over run this secluded,
neck of the woods,
again.
In that time,
you will see.
You will grow stronger,
You must remember,
you are the one,
that crossed his path,
this one,
you call Mergatroit!
You approached him,
you petted him,
in wonderment.
Causing him to be smitten
by the human hand.
That of his natural born enemy,
I might add,
and remonstrate!
Then you brought him home,
no less!
Not just that eventide,
a decade ago,
but every since then,
to romp and play.
Gallivanting,
over the countryside,
all hours of the day
and evening.
Betwixt the warp and weave,
of the earth's horizon,
and the Heavens.
No matter what I say!"
The womanchild's mother,
shook her magnificent mane,
of silver and raven
strands, springing
from her fine forehead,
in a widow's peak;
as she giggled good naturedly,
at her progeny's reticence,
in accepting her own hand
chosen destiny,
when she,
not and never her mother,
petted the dragon,
thence known,
as Mergatroit.
anirbas
7/30/2004 11:11 PM 3 out of 13
"There was was another,
venerable Dragon Warrior,
my fearful daughter.
You are of her lineage!
She was your great, great,
great, great-grandmother!
She did not shirk,
after stroking a Wyvern's
snout, from her responsibility,
when the time came,
to do so.
You shall see,
neither shall you,
when push comes to shove.
For we are women,
we protect out of love."
Wide eyed, again,
her progeny,
replied,
with a question.
"I had a grandmother,
who was, before me,
a Dragon Warrior?
You jest, Mother!
Why did never
you tell me?"
Her mother smiled as she,
took the hand of her child,
and spake.
"At first, twas not of import.
'Til you showed yourself
home that night,
a draconic youth, in tow;
and a new toy,
the misplaced weapon,
of a Christianized Heathen,
no doubt.
The finest of steel,
I had ever laid sight on!
How some ever,
even then,
it was useless
to tell you,
of your forthcoming
destiny;
due to your thoughtless innocence.
Best not to worry,
your pretty little head, unduly;
whilst you were a bonnie child.
I couldn't resist,
letting you grow wild
and free of mental
and emotional restraints."
Interrupting,
her mother's monologue,
came her progeny's voice.
"But, momma",
she wheedled and intoned,
"why must I,
defend the dragon,
just because,
he's my pet,
and I love him?"
Her mother,
once more,
remonstrated her.
"Because, my own sweet pet,
when you made him your lapdog,
at the touch of your hand,
this draconic beast,
you then named,
Mergatroit;
you lowered his
instinctional resistance,
to his natural born enemy,
Man, and all his get,
and byblows,
in general...
Can you now,
understand?"
anirbas
7/30/2004 11:46 PM 4 out of 13
The girl's silver and raven
haired mother,
clapped her palms, together,
in an age old, parental gesture,
that stated, the conversation,
was null and void, over!
Then spake as much.
"Enough. Come. See what I have!
In the chest I have ne'er
allowed to you,
access."
So saying, she sauntered
to the iron bound chest,
against the far wall,
of their humble hovel.
Pulling a chain,
from about her neck,
and over her magnificent mane,
course and long as a mare's tail,
and just as beautiful.
Slith, spoke the key,
that had dangled from the chain,
to the lock.
Click, replied
the iron clasp.
Then, snap. The lid
popped up!
A silvern light spilled
from the oaken chest' confines;
as the westering sun,
setting as it beamed
through the narrow, open doorway,
reflected off the mystery,
that lay with in,
the here to fore,
chest forbidden.
The girl's eyes,
now shining with curiousity,
whom harbored a dragon penchant,
stepped forward,
around her mother.
"Oh, Mother, Mother.
Oh my stars, above."
she gasped in wonderment.
"It's, it's, it's..."
"Yes," breathed her parent,
"it's fain fair, is it not?"
Then, the older woman,
removed from the chest,
long unopened,
a sleeveless, shoulder collared,
chainmail tunic.
(Mayhap, mithril!
It twas, afterall,
along time ago,
my friends,
this story took place.
Could have still been
armor left lying about,
crafted by Elves...)
It's platinum links,
glittered in the low light,
of the banked fire.
in their hovel.
She lay it across the
fur covered bed,
she and her child shared.
Whence her daughter,
gleefully ran her hands,
over the smooth, silver mesh.
Her mother, returned to the chest,
drew forth more treasure,
a warrior, would highly measure!
Stacking it in piles,
upon the fur covered bed,
neatly beside her now,
chainmail enchanted daughter;
still cooing over the first
prize out of the trunk!
Matched pairs,
of wide, hardened leather bands,
studded with sharp, metal points,
to protect her forearms,
from wrist to elbow;
and a narrower pair,
studded, as well, with metal,
to protect her biceps;
a pair of greaves,
of a silvern patina,
no doubt left over,
by a hapless Roman invader,
from centuries, before,
to guard her shins;
and yet another pair
of objects for her daughter,
a pair of blackened, slim calved,
leathern boots, to wear beneath
the shin armor,
and to shod her feet;
last but not least,
a pair of buttery soft,
tanned ebony, leathern
trousers and a long sleeved
tunic of the same,
to wear under,
the chainmail,
to save her soft skin,
from chafing...
She stood
a bit taller
than five foot three;
almost five foot four,
in her bare feet.
Hands on hips,
eyes shining merrily.
Chesnut hair
falling in loose curls,
to her waist.
A question,
in her widened peepers,
as she regarded her mother;
then spake, sardonically,
one dark brow raised,
laconically.
"Let me get this straight,
my father's dear mate,
you're telling me,
I have an appointment,
with destiny?"
At this,
she giggled,
quite helplessly.
"To whit, to be
a Dragon Warrior,
no less?
And prithee,
giver of my life,
whom has always
sheltered me from strife;
taught me to turn
the other cheek;
to always show mercy;
to be not ashamed
if my eyes leak;
now you are telling me,
I am to be,
a flea-bitten, hardened
defender of the last
royal, living Wyvern?
My responsibility,
for life,
to do this?
Forsoothe,
for petting
this beast,
one night,
lost as a child,
in a glade?
Afraid,
of being alone?
Now, I have to defend
this dratted dragon,
from annihilation,
and it's species
total extinction?
But, why, dear one,
of my heart, my mother?
Why me?
I play violin,
and write poetry!
I live in my head,
in books of history!
I am not constructed,
emotionally or physically,
to reek havoc and misery,
upon or from, another human!
Not even for my dratted pet dragon!
As you call him, not me.
A pet is a dog,
who stays
near your feet;
leading of following
in your steps.
That does not describe Mergatroit.
He comes and goes,
just he pleases and wills.
Not me!
Frequently,
he hides from me,
the older he gets!
So, why me?
I am a verbal jester!
An aspiring court minstral
and entertainer!
Not a warrior!
So, why me, mother?
anirbas
7/30/2004 10:45 PM 2 out of 13
Her mother, eyed her
petulant daughter;
weighing her retort, carefully;
before speaking, evenly.
"Because you are my daughter.
That is why you, sweet giver
of my daily dose of laughter!
I have taught you honor,
standards, and morals;
even without your
sainted dead father,
may his soul rest,
peacefully,
'til I join him.
I know you are afraid!
As I would be, too,
standing in your skin!
If I but could,
I would gladly take your place!
But tho' this task,
requires an intelligent,
resourceful, weapons skilled
woman, like myself;
not a teenaged girl...
Alas, I am now,
a bit long in tooth,
my banner of protection,
over you, and your dratted dragon,
to unfurl...
This responsibility,
requires the strength
of a woman, betwixt
thirty and forty;
not an unblooded teenling,
nor a gullible maiden of twenty.
Nor, in that case,
a crone of sixty,
or more.
But whose counting?"
At her jest, she laughed.
Thereby giving her daughter
the opportunity,
to speak,
once more.
"But, Mother,"
she whined, pitiably.
"I have seen only,
twenty winters!
So, to whit, I cannot be,
this Dragon Warrior,
you speak, of me being,
so glowingly!"
Her mother, smiled patiently.
"It will take me
a decade or more to
prepare you, for your
own, self chosen quest,
my beloved only daughter,
and child.
With your training,
I will not be mild,
the best and better,
I can now do,
to protect you-
teach you,
to protect yourself...
If you are fortunate,
mayhap, even longer,
you and I shall have.
Before the folly of men,
over run this secluded,
neck of the woods,
again.
In that time,
you will see.
You will grow stronger,
You must remember,
you are the one,
that crossed his path,
this one,
you call Mergatroit!
You approached him,
you petted him,
in wonderment.
Causing him to be smitten
by the human hand.
That of his natural born enemy,
I might add,
and remonstrate!
Then you brought him home,
no less!
Not just that eventide,
a decade ago,
but every since then,
to romp and play.
Gallivanting,
over the countryside,
all hours of the day
and evening.
Betwixt the warp and weave,
of the earth's horizon,
and the Heavens.
No matter what I say!"
The womanchild's mother,
shook her magnificent mane,
of silver and raven
strands, springing
from her fine forehead,
in a widow's peak;
as she giggled good naturedly,
at her progeny's reticence,
in accepting her own hand
chosen destiny,
when she,
not and never her mother,
petted the dragon,
thence known,
as Mergatroit.
anirbas
7/30/2004 11:11 PM 3 out of 13
"There was was another,
venerable Dragon Warrior,
my fearful daughter.
You are of her lineage!
She was your great, great,
great, great-grandmother!
She did not shirk,
after stroking a Wyvern's
snout, from her responsibility,
when the time came,
to do so.
You shall see,
neither shall you,
when push comes to shove.
For we are women,
we protect out of love."
Wide eyed, again,
her progeny,
replied,
with a question.
"I had a grandmother,
who was, before me,
a Dragon Warrior?
You jest, Mother!
Why did never
you tell me?"
Her mother smiled as she,
took the hand of her child,
and spake.
"At first, twas not of import.
'Til you showed yourself
home that night,
a draconic youth, in tow;
and a new toy,
the misplaced weapon,
of a Christianized Heathen,
no doubt.
The finest of steel,
I had ever laid sight on!
How some ever,
even then,
it was useless
to tell you,
of your forthcoming
destiny;
due to your thoughtless innocence.
Best not to worry,
your pretty little head, unduly;
whilst you were a bonnie child.
I couldn't resist,
letting you grow wild
and free of mental
and emotional restraints."
Interrupting,
her mother's monologue,
came her progeny's voice.
"But, momma",
she wheedled and intoned,
"why must I,
defend the dragon,
just because,
he's my pet,
and I love him?"
Her mother,
once more,
remonstrated her.
"Because, my own sweet pet,
when you made him your lapdog,
at the touch of your hand,
this draconic beast,
you then named,
Mergatroit;
you lowered his
instinctional resistance,
to his natural born enemy,
Man, and all his get,
and byblows,
in general...
Can you now,
understand?"
anirbas
7/30/2004 11:46 PM 4 out of 13
The girl's silver and raven
haired mother,
clapped her palms, together,
in an age old, parental gesture,
that stated, the conversation,
was null and void, over!
Then spake as much.
"Enough. Come. See what I have!
In the chest I have ne'er
allowed to you,
access."
So saying, she sauntered
to the iron bound chest,
against the far wall,
of their humble hovel.
Pulling a chain,
from about her neck,
and over her magnificent mane,
course and long as a mare's tail,
and just as beautiful.
Slith, spoke the key,
that had dangled from the chain,
to the lock.
Click, replied
the iron clasp.
Then, snap. The lid
popped up!
A silvern light spilled
from the oaken chest' confines;
as the westering sun,
setting as it beamed
through the narrow, open doorway,
reflected off the mystery,
that lay with in,
the here to fore,
chest forbidden.
The girl's eyes,
now shining with curiousity,
whom harbored a dragon penchant,
stepped forward,
around her mother.
"Oh, Mother, Mother.
Oh my stars, above."
she gasped in wonderment.
"It's, it's, it's..."
"Yes," breathed her parent,
"it's fain fair, is it not?"
Then, the older woman,
removed from the chest,
long unopened,
a sleeveless, shoulder collared,
chainmail tunic.
(Mayhap, mithril!
It twas, afterall,
along time ago,
my friends,
this story took place.
Could have still been
armor left lying about,
crafted by Elves...)
It's platinum links,
glittered in the low light,
of the banked fire.
in their hovel.
She lay it across the
fur covered bed,
she and her child shared.
Whence her daughter,
gleefully ran her hands,
over the smooth, silver mesh.
Her mother, returned to the chest,
drew forth more treasure,
a warrior, would highly measure!
Stacking it in piles,
upon the fur covered bed,
neatly beside her now,
chainmail enchanted daughter;
still cooing over the first
prize out of the trunk!
Matched pairs,
of wide, hardened leather bands,
studded with sharp, metal points,
to protect her forearms,
from wrist to elbow;
and a narrower pair,
studded, as well, with metal,
to protect her biceps;
a pair of greaves,
of a silvern patina,
no doubt left over,
by a hapless Roman invader,
from centuries, before,
to guard her shins;
and yet another pair
of objects for her daughter,
a pair of blackened, slim calved,
leathern boots, to wear beneath
the shin armor,
and to shod her feet;
last but not least,
a pair of buttery soft,
tanned ebony, leathern
trousers and a long sleeved
tunic of the same,
to wear under,
the chainmail,
to save her soft skin,
from chafing...
