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[Nonsequitorian]

I have a fort with a purpose: its purpose is to export booze, and that is the only thing it exports. It cannot make goods other than mugs, also. It's an ongoing challenge, and I've had to reclaim it multiple times, but a fort is an effort. Here's a sonnet I wrote for the first part of what I hope will be an ongoing thing.

The Beginning of the Black Cat Brewery.

Here's the story of a home in the shade:
Seven hard dwarves, and a single black cat,
Who loved to make drink and hated combat,
Had struck the earth but with shovel and spade.
Did they know of the foundations they laid?
Did they not know that which they just begat?
Maybe, that stink was what they had mused at.
And they never thought that death needs a blade,
But aye, they had sought a life clean and new,
And it's what they got, though painful, it seemed.
No matter how painful, they wouldn't lose.
Strawberry wine, ale, rum, and sewer brew:
The drinks they made were the life they had dreamed,
And in the end, they always had more booze.

It sounds a bit rough to me, but I've seen worse, and all the syllables match up and it rhymes right, and the ninth line is a turn. So yeah.

[Nonsequitorian]

Should I do the rest of the storty in a collection of self contained sonnets (so that each makes sense on its own), or in iambic quatrains using an ABBACDDC scheme (so that the sonnet is but an openning to the entire poem, and the entire poem is something like a short epic)? Should I continue at all?

[Nonsequitorian]

Part 1: The Foundation; Thistun and Etur's Blade

The tale which I shall tell to you
Began with those few dwarves of Shrak,
A mountain hall that fell to black,
Those who just knew how to make brew.

The skills they had were all but rust.
Two held some secrets from them, though,
They said "We will to work below,"
"You'll send the crops above, we trust"

The five above began their work
And soon forgot the two down deep
Who never knew the joy of sleep
True warriors, they would never shirk

Because above receieved no field,
They dug down too, to plant more seed.
Thus they'd never have true need
For which below had said would yield.

Below, again, Etur and Äs,
Alone, with just the lack of light,
Trained until they would need to fight.
And they were sad, I do confess.

Yet they, Etur and Äs, did train
And soon were mighty like the stone.
Together they were all alone,
In time eachother they would feign.

Above the five were soon much more
The migrants came to seek success
And thus, the Black Cat saw progress.
To all, they bared an open door.

When a caravan came from Shrak
The Brewery was much surprised
And soon they doubled in their size.
So, every year that dray came back.

Etur and Äs were far below.
They took the strongest from above
To train for when push comes to shove.
Thus, they also began to grow.

But not all was well with the two:
They disagreed on all subjects.
Their situation was complex;
One day it all was simply through.

Etur began to search and find
Äs with dames, and so they fought
Before he died, Äs got one shot
Which struck both eyes: Etur was blind.

And so old Etur was upset:
His only friend and sight were gone,
But dreams of both would carry on.
Then came that one first deadly threat.

All the people fled and ran
The forgotten beast Ume had come
Like the beating of a drum
But Etur had a secret plan...

I'm done for now. I'll write up some more later.

[Nonsequitorian]

Etur started going stark mad
As Ume ravaged the weak Black Cat
But the others had not just sat
They fought and won, or thought they had.

Their secret was shown to all eyes
While Etur worked furiously
The warriors'd won, curiously
Today was not the Cat's demise.

The warriors all were deamed as saints.
Then old Etur finished his dream.
That sword of solid gold did gleam,
But death of the Black Cat it paints.

The people would gather around.
To see demise in sharpened gold.
Etur would not see it unfold,
They looked, but he was never found.

Despite it being there so clear.
None could understand the sword,
Until an endless goblin horde
Stopped by to drink, inspire fear.

They were thousands, clad in full steel.
The warriors of the Cat were nine,
"We'll kill you all, in hell you'll dine,
We'll never fall, we'll never kneel!"

The paladins fought with glory,
But one by one they had to fall,
Or so thought the horde, if at all.
Here is no end for a story.

The warriors grinned, soaked with blood
They had victory, at a cost.
Some civillians had been lost,
But no soldier laid in the mud.

Under their nose an evil came
With which arrived our guardian,
The Black Cat's to-be champion.
The one who saved the land from flame.

The evil was but a farmer,
Or something along that same line.
His lack of hunger was a sign:
He was found out, that death charmer.

By then it was too late to hide.
Etur's rotting corpse had risen
The Cat turned into a prison
As he ran and killed all inside.

The warriors, who needed their rest,
Tried to take their leader back down.
He crushed them with a wooden crown.
And so, the Cat had not much left.

Our hero was but a brewer
He had not ever fought or killed.
He had only ever distilled.
Yet the Cat became still fewer.

The Black Cat Brewery presumed
The goldin sword displayed the war,
And not the dead who were in store.
Those who lived thought they were doomed.

But then, Thistun, our hero said:
"No dwarf shall yet threaten this place!
You coward! You rat! Show your face!
Prepare your grave, for you are dead!"

Thistun picked up the golden blade,
And cut through the necromancer.
To that, the evil had to answer:
"It's not so easy I'm afraid!"

Thus dead began to rise again,
The corpses stood and stared at him,
The situation looked quite grim.
The necromancer guffawed, and then,

Undead, now, Ume, pushed through the crowd,
But Thistun knew just what to do:
He pulled out Etur's blade and threw.
It lodged in Ume, who lurched and cowed.

He took his fist to his foe's face.
He punched and hit and jabbed and slammed.
"Depart from here! Go die! Be damned!
You are but dwarven kind's disgrace!"

There were so few dwarves left alive.
Thistun, and friends, would always stand
And build back up, hand in hand.
Even when they were only five.

And thus the Black Cat could live on,
though more terrors would come to pass,
And more would yet die, and alas,
Today was but a dream forgone.

When they were done all they could think,
Was what they were going to do
Now that the Cat was built anew.
You know what they wanted? A drink.

[Nonsequitorian]

Why am I the only person in this topic? I thought more people would have responded to something like this.

[peregarrett]

Great work!
I imagine that to be a song of traveling dwarven bard at some frontier fortress.

[Nonsequitorian]

Part 2: The Stills, The Freeze

Here we join the Brewery again. By now, Thistun is long dead, though the story well known throughout the Black Cat. I'll go back and recount Thistun's sons and daughter, but I thought this reclaim was by far the most histerical. I'm switching up the rhyming scheme and meter. ABBA is good and all, but

I do believe it's time once more
To talk about where booze was sold,
So far away from the silly war.

It would, and did, get fiercly cold.
What else would one expect up north?
They said it kept away the mold.

But the Cat needed to set forth
Four tanks of water, four huge stills.
It would improve the Black Cat's worth.

Each tank was burried in the hills.
Each had a flood gate for repaire.
Each tank had a dwarf who just fills.

Zaneg, the mayor, on her chair
Was pleased with progress, though t'was slow.
A good leader, so kind, so fair.

But at the time they did not know
A goblin front had come to drink
Winter, too, showed, that clever foe.

That which they had wanted to think
Was safe was not, the gates were broke.
The Cat became a kitchen sink

The water washed the dwarven folk
The few goblins ran, like a rat
They found it funny, like a joke.

The dwarves, sadly, did not know that
The winter was colder than thought
Soon all frozen, was the Black Cat...

I'm done for now. Second part later. Part two might be shorter than other parts, especially shorter than part three (which is pretty long). This rhyming scheme is painfully hard. I wont quit it until the next part, but jesus rollerskating christ. It's not easy. I had to rhyme North with worth. Bagh

[Nonsequitorian]

Makes me confused how few posts this gets.

..But not all dwarves were ice; they fought.
They found the warmest place they could.
They killed their pets: no fish were caught.

They burned their bodies, no more wood.
Zaneg was trapped inside the tomb
Where a certain gold statue stood.

A bust of Thistun slaying doom,
She prayed for his sword to guide her.
She sought a place light would consume.

And then her eyes opened wider,
She took a pick and swung through walls.
The warrior's spirit had grown inside her.

She broke through all the icy halls
And put new gates on every tank.
Then, Zaneg waited til ice thaws.

When she saw, though, her heart sank.
The dwarven folk were all but white.
Her pale face went yet more blank.

The Cat was such a greusome sight.
A hundred corpses, frozen hard.
Zaneg cried from the intense fright.

There were more alive: one cold guard,
A couple brewers made it, too,
And a certain wandering bard.

She knew not if others held through
But then she remembered the spire
After hearing a whispered clue.

A scream came from somewhere higher
She knew, now, that not all were dead
But the situation looked quite dire.

She swung her way through doors of lead
All locked, although she did get past.
Then, she found an iron axe head.

Zaneg heard a voice at long last.
"No one will know that you were killed."
From through the wall, a mad outcast.

When she heard it, her spine got chilled.
The captain was about to slaughter
A girl, who's job was to build.

She was Zaneg's only daughter
The shortest way was through the wall.
Zaneg's rage was getting hotter.

She tore a hole and tried to crawl.
But, sadly, she was much too late.
Her daughter fell like a rag doll.

Zaneg's heart was in a state
Which could not take another hit
She threw a tantrum of pure hate.

The captain was nigh made of grit
A legend and a fighter strong
We knew she'd lose, I do admit.

To the Cat, she did belong.
No fighter, she, though she fought well.
For her I sing to you this song.

Zaneg let out a fearsome yell
And lodged the pick into his chest,
But just as soon, dear Zaneg fell.

Her head fell away from the rest
As the captain's blood poured out.
Steel is not what dwarves can digest

Although they threw all things about
Their sadness, did finally shrink.
The Black Cat again stood strong and stout

Now it is time, I do think
For us all to have a drink.

[Pan]

Definitely posting to watch. You've got some talent  I couldn't rhyme with my life at stake 

[AustralianWinter]

Being like, totally into poetry and stuff, I'm posting to watch - I'm reading up on it at a later point however, tomorrow or the like. It's a really cool idea, and I'm looking forward to digging into it!

[Talvieno]

Why am I the only person in this topic? I thought more people would have responded to something like this.

I have no idea. I'm the only one posting in Vanya's Journals (for two pages now), so you're not alone. Maybe they just don't want to interrupt?

I had a poem I wrote, Felgoth's Bane, and I think you have it beat at this point. It didn't get much in the way of replies either. Posting to watch, though.

Also, props for the sonnet. Those are hard to write.

[Splint]

Also probably has alot of lurkers. And remeber Talvieno, most of your readerbase has already seen what you've written, and likewise may have many lurkers.

I'm not much of a fan of epic poetry, but hey, I liked Beowulf and I like DF so the two forms seem to meld well to me.

[Nonsequitorian]

Part 3: Thistun's Son, Thistun's Daughter

When Thistun slayed his necromancer foe
He wanted still to stay among his peers
O, that was so very, truly, long ago...

He had two sons, although there would be tears:
The youngest son, who was of seven years,
The favorite son, he caugth a syndrome.
He died in sleep with a mouth full of foam.

The other was left among the living.
Though Thistun never saw him the same way.
Yet Thistun was kind and much forgiving.

Then came, on a sunny Hematite's day
To Thistun's young son, Ator's, great dismay
A little girl, Kun, though but a small child,
Whose very presence made Ator go wild.

And though Kun was never unkind to him,
Her brother was a rotten and rank boy
He had extorted her to do his whim.

Thus the boy grew up with his spoiled joy
While the daughter matured quiet and coy.
Not one liked the dwarven man, though he lead,
And not one knew why he was not yet dead.

Kun became a part of the group of guards
She was the best, and thus held Etur's sword.
Ator was furious in all regards.

But the sword was not given to a lord,
Only to the best, as hard-earned reward.
So when a siege arrived, they were not scared:
The Black Cat was, as a first, well prepared.

The goblins fell with a strange and quick grace.
A single goblin was caught in a cage.
His name? Arstruk, the one of putrid face.

"I'd like to talk with you my king, my sage,
My dwarven equal who will never age."
Ator replied "I don't know what you speak.
Is there a way for which I wont grow weak?"

"Why yes, of course, and you're so very near.
Just dig deeper, and deeper, and you'll see
true power" Arstruk said with one quick snear.

Ator, unbenounced, just let Arstruk free,
Wherein he told the bowdwarves with much glee
To fire upon the goblin as he fled.
Arstruk turned round and stopped and loudly said:

"Ator, your hubris is but unmatched,
so if you'd keep in mind my humble thought:
It is good to keep your mine shafts fast hatched."

In Arstruk's head a copper bolt was caught.
His body stayed, They wanted him to rot.
Though goblins were subject to dwarven hate,
Arstruk's advice would change the Black Cat's fate...

That's enough for now. I've changed the names of Arstruk, Ator, and Kun. They used to be Ngustuk (or whatever that stereotypical name for goblins is), Etur (which is partially why I picked Ator, which sounds like Etur, and means "perfect" in dwarven), and Kun (which is simply Cat, so that's pretty clear why I picked it).

Arstruk means Demon (you can guess why, and you're probably correct). Thistun means Goldenrod (picked that name too. I mean, he had a golden sword...). Zaneg is the only name that I didn't have to change, but then again it doesn't really mean too much in the context of part 2.

[Pan]

I liked the latest update. Not bad at all 

[Nonsequitorian]

thanks guys.