The Ballad Of Ajun Gate (Quicksilver)

To all those who’ll listen or haven’t been told,

of the day the last drake woke and rose from the cold.

Of the young warrior who came veiled in shadows and blood to

defeat the foul creature and save those he could.

Of the Fisher King,

and the wolves at his back,

who came howling in the night,

together, a pack.

The frost blessed the morning.

The warriors faced their fate.

And thus begins our tale,

The Ballad of A Jun Gate.

The drake, he did stir,

Old Omnam Sha Cry,

observing the world through ink-black,

mad eyes. The drinkers of night pledged him death and decay.

That he’d feast on his foes and the flesh he did flay.

So long as he rose and he joined them in war,

against the Fae who protected the sacred,

blessed ore. With glittering sharp scales of gold and of red,

the drake, he consented,

and bidden, he fed.

The Fae in their towers stood mighty,

stood proud. But soon they were scattered,

their fear shouted loud.

Dark wings shaded mountain and blotted the sun.

And mad old ’Sha Cry,

he watched them all run.

The wolves scaled the summit with blades in their hands.

The drake saw them coming,

and knew where they’d stand.

So there he did meet them,

and there they did clash.

And Old Mad ’Sha Cry dressed the mountain in ash.

His fire ran in rivers.

It melted the snow.

There was no escaping the glowing hot flow.

With teeth bared and dripping,

the drake trapped the Fae,

laughing with cruelty above the warriors he’d slay.

But the wolves held their ground,

all dauntless and brave,

determined to send Old ’Sha Cry to his grave.

Swift came the chant,

then, so all close could hear.

A war cry of old that strengthened those near.

The wolves ran the charge and at the head of the swell

came the proud Fisher King

bearing Nimerelle.

The drake saw his courage and was filled with a rage the

likes of which unseen in more than an age.

But the king held his nerve and raised up his sword,

and the wolves showed their courage ’fore the drake and the horde.

Their ears rang aloud with the King Fisher’s cry

that those who stood with him might fall,

but not die. For their sacrifice was great,

and so was the cost...

But those that they saved...

would e’er remember the lost...

So they scaled the great drake,

the last of his name.

They did it for AJun,

not glory, nor fame.

And the drake knew his power.

He started to gloat,

but the King saw his chance and drove steel down his throat.

The drake he did tremble and started to choke,

his evil, rank maw filling up with black smoke.

He thrashed and he bellowed,

did Old Om Nam Sha Cry,

but the reaper had claimed him,

and bidden, he died.

The Ajun were safe.

The horde abandoned the gate.

And thus ends the ballad

of the king and his eight.