Filk: Mane Of Gold
- a filk of Sting - Fields of Gold
You'll remember her, as the westward flown,
atoned for sins and folly.
You'll recall the past, and her searching eye,
as you trot in fields of old.
Though she wrote her woe, you to gaze upon
Amidst the realms of folly.
In her hooves, you slept, as a mom becomes.
Secure in strands of gold.
"Will you trust in me, will accept my love,
Despite my eyes and folly?
We're together now, under painted sky,
Bundled up in legs to hold."
Sing the mail mare's hoof, steady as a sword,
Against the cries of folly.
See her boldly cry, when they cast you out,
When you wept in fields of gold.
"I always hope princesses like you
Never forget where they have come from.
In the air of the night still left,
We'll talk in words of hope,
and hide from winter's cold."
Many realms surpassed s
Intensive Care Unit of the GodsI swear, it's not safe to browse this subreddit unless you're hooked up to an intensive care unit of the gods.
"Sir! Sir wake up."
The wise man jerked forward in his bed, an orderly standing over him with a concerned look on her face.
"Are you ok? Were you having a bad dream?"
The sweat still clung to his brow, but his breath quickly calmed. What was that dream? Brief colorful tendrils faded quickly when he awoke, but the beating in his chest always lasted longer. He attempted to focus on the warmth, on the colors. His brow furrowed, but her tender voice pulled his focus into the present.
"Are you alright?"
He nodded, gave a small smile. The relief in her angelic eyes was immediate. Reminded him of something fleeting. Something warm. He tried to focus on her eyes, on the shape of her face, but they seemed indistinct, wrong and yet somehow calming. With the smallest of movements, she coaxed him back into his pillows, drawing the comforter up to his chin.
"Sleep well, sir. Call if you ne
In which whisperingsage wrote a letterThe sage leaned back in his office chair, hat bushed back off his brow. Smoke curled toward the ceiling, glowing softly in the dwindling twilight. His finely crafted retort had been mailed, his work for the day complete. He could hear his secretary shuffling papers, she too would soon be leaving for the day. Then a pause of silence.
His office door opened on poorly oiled hinges. He looked up from his reverie, expecting the usual despondent blond visage. Instead, two dark suits greeted him, one bearing a familiar orangered envelope, the only splash of color in the darkening room.
"How did you "
"You've wandered into a world you don't know, Mr. Whisper. A world where names are sacred. Do you know what a name means?"
"Who who are you?"
"You've taken names in vein, Mr. Whisper. You've taken your own. Besmirched it, and thrown aside as a tarnished pseudonym. And then you've gone for others. You know who I am.