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Lure

LURE

This song is a traditional Waerd song of prayer to the Two Fold Queen; to she who brings the rain that makes the dry rivers flow and fills the dry ponds and lakes, and to her that dries them up. It is usually sung lightheartedly as an omen of good luck when fishing.

It was our ancestors, those before the Erishè and Waerd broke apart, who wrote the songs and chants of power. They urged us to be pure and happy of heart when We sing songs like this for they are songs of summoning.

And remember that they only knew of the desert and a few rivers and lakes; they had not yet seen the open sea...or the things i have since seen in it. I’d been sad for a long time when I sang this song that day. And my anger was growing.

I’ve travelled far and can go no further
The shining water is where my desert ends
I am hungry and my feet are sore So don’t deny me

This hook and lure I have worked so hard on
Fashioned through trial and hammer song
Feathers make you look like a pretty little thing
I’m a long way from home and I need an offering

The ripples spread out when the lure hits the water
The hook and worm sink and my heart sinks with it Into the mud
But the weight is perfect and the lure it floats

Render unto me a life

Here you come now
You are bigger than I hoped for My rod it bends to breaking
I will eat well if you just come to me

My lure it is pretty yes? Swallow it yes?
Render unto me a life
You are bigger than I hoped for

I’ve travelled far and can go no further
The shining water is where my desert ends
I am hungry and my feet are sore
So don’t deny me

You are bigger than I hoped for

Click the image, shut your eyes to listen to it being sung in a tongue that is almost Waerd...

12/1/2018 9:15:47 PM #1

The mann muttered quietly to himself as he pushed the struggling worm onto the blueishly tinged hook. There were glints of the strange orange flecks within the metal which caught the sunlight. The feathered lure above the hook had small metal eyes which reflected the orange. Eyes of fire...strange.
He set his tackle bag on the upturned root of a small fallen tree that sat at this junction where the river pushed quietly into the sea and took a breath. He was exhausted...from the walking and from the disturbing dreams. He walked up to the edge of the water with the fine rod his brother had made and thought about which way to cast - into the river or into this sea?

He had never fished the sea before. In fact he didn’t know of any of his kin or family who ever had. His home land was a place of wrenched and wretched desert rivers, usually barely running and mostly letting bony fish and eels hide in the shallow pools.

His journey away from home had taken him past such fast and constantly flowing rivers he could not believe. He kept honing his families art of hook and lure-making as he travelled, working and teaching in the small villages that had a forge. Or setting up a forge in those that didn’t.

The people kept changing as he moved on from the desert. The only thing that stayed the same was their ultimate distrust of him...a few days was all he could seem to settle in one place for before the accusations and threats started. Or the rock throwing.

This new outpost though, seemed different.

12/1/2018 9:20:24 PM #2

A short way behind him was the odd outcrop of ore that he used to make this hook. It had glinted it’s orange at him in the moonlight a few weeks ago, but that happened only once the season changed and the star with the tail appeared in the night sky. Before that, the rock was obviously an ore of sorts but uninteresting.
The ore was very hard to work with and his but he finally made progress after a week full of trials, errors, thrown hammers and Waerdic curses. Despite his short temper, he had been allowed to set up and use the forge and had been doing other odd jobs as needed. The people in this town for some reason didn’t think he was here to kill them.

He was calling himself Dalesson here in this green land, a place they called Quillen. It wasn’t his real name but it was not far off.

So he sang the fishing song, still with frustrations and anger in his soul and said the prayer to the Two Fold Queen. He then looked at the rod his brother had made...the brother he had killed...and felt nothing.

He looked up and decided he would find out what lived in the sea and if he could catch it. The cast was good and long and the lure, hook and sinker hit the flat water with a plop. The exhaustion was hitting him again and shortly after he sat down with his back against the fallen tree his eyes were shut and his breathing had slowed.

The eyes of the feathered lure glinted strangely as it bobbed on the water and Dalessons eyes started to do a synchronous dance, darting left and right.

Stupid dreams.

To be continued...

12/2/2018 12:22:39 AM #3

Very nice Nightfinger!


12/2/2018 1:41:30 AM #4

that very good Nightfinger cant wait to read more


From Our Farm Gate To Your Dinner Plate.

Friend Code : EE5C8E

12/2/2018 3:09:16 AM #5

You are good at story writing in a way i am not


12/2/2018 3:23:24 AM #6

<3 :D Nice


Blaah

12/2/2018 3:28:19 AM #7

Great stuff Nighty! Very immersive lore that drags me deep into the possibilities of the Waerd.

12/2/2018 4:44:17 AM #8

When awake he couldn’t recall the dreams. Only when he fell back into them did they come rushing back into focus...almost like this was the true reality and the other life was sleep.

The last dream found him wandering through and out of the odd town - past the dark stone estates on the hill at the centre, past the gallows, past the markets and cathedral, past the cheap and dowdy tenements (and the unblinking eyes watching him from within), past the dubious meat markets and butchers quarter, then out through the north gate and the road to the harbour.

In this dream he is rowing the small wooden boat away from the wharf that juts out from the fog bound island. He can just make out a few landmarks of the walled town, points of light that come from a few houses lining the road.

This is far enough. He pulls the oars in and the boat slows quickly, now barely moving on the flat dark water. He picks up his rod, casts his line, wedges the end of the rod under the narrow splintered seat and and let’s the other end rest on the bow. There is no wind.

Mist thickens and like a damp blanket it now drapes around his whole body, little droplets slowly coalescing on his face, beginning to drip. His newly fashioned lure glints its odd orange eyes at him even though there is no sunlight to reflect. There is no perceptible movement at all.
He imagines this grey silence to be like waiting to be born. Or the exact moment of death. His mind wanders.

Then a faint far-off splash, carries quietly but clearly across the water, bringing his attention sharply back. He tries seeing deeper into the fog but it is useless. Blind in the grey.

Suddenly the lure dips beneath the water and the rod gets yanked across the bow of the boat, being pulled from beneath.
He sits up quickly and grabs for the rod, slows the reel but still lets it run out.
Then it stops. He readies for the fish’s next move.

Nothing...nothing...

To be continued...

12/3/2018 12:36:46 PM #9

The globulous thing had been dreaming it’s own unknowable dreams in black silence since before The Breaking...since before the Erishe and Waerd decided they and their gods were different enough that they’d be better off killing eachother.
Of course it came from somewhere, just not somewhere that words alone can explain.

The myriad bodies cycling above Elyrian skies are not countable and though some of them are in an orbit you might reliably research and plot, there are those taking a truly chaotic path.
Whether by fault or by design, if you could see the whole universe at the right scale you would think some of these bodies are being directed. How else would one explain seeing these giant distorted marbles roll smoothly along the gutters of space before suddenly changing direction or dropping for no knowable reason into unseen abyssi.
And who knows the substances or forces involved at their making.

Or why a sentient thing might cling on for the ride.

Just know that the Longest Night was approaching and that a thing, wakened by Waerd-song, opened its eyes for the first time in a very long time.