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Ҫaҫ’ô, Man of The Morning Star, epitasis, p.1 Harsh, b.1, canto 2

Canto Two ~ It is twenty years ago of a Harsh morning.

Prince Carl’s war has been fought and lost. As his mother had long warned, King Cartive’s grip upon the Legions of Lurien is near absolute. The armies of Illian, though abetted by a populace that willingly followed Carl into disaster, have been decimated. Cartive now holds the proletariat through all of Lurien hostage to Prince Carl’s surrender.

Seriously wounded, Carl returns to the hamlet Tin knowing he will not hesitate to give himself over to The King. All is not lost though, for like his mother and father both, the bleakest moment is when one begins to plan most carefully.

We reflect on Carl’s mysterious return but one year previous. Unrecognized even by King Cartive who believed the young man died on the same tragic evening as his sister Claire and her husband, the rogue known as Ramparté, he had chosen to ignore the advice of Queen Claire’s generals in their preparation for the war they were confident would reclaim the throne.

The armies of the Hidden City of Jilson nor their allies elsewhere in the land will not march forth to war, he argues, until the people of Life’s Lurien themselves have chosen to stand with him against the mad king. Then and only then will he reveal himself and bring his uncle to justice.

Carl travels the lands speaking against the King as a political rabble rouser. Acting the rebel is a dangerous proposition, but as he knew they would the people flock to join in ever growing numbers. Unused to such oppression as King Cartive seems able bring to a land nominally free and open, they are unsurprisingly pliable to Carl’s charismatic arguments. Although disguised, he is yet the son of Clair’ice Christenson.

At the tipping point when Carl has chosen to proclaim himself, he chooses as the location of his pronouncement the tiny hamlet that, unbeknownst even to its own denizens, was so important to their precious Queen and her charmingly, roguish mate.

If there is a place on Earth Carl may call home, it is here.

Canto Sixteen

His name is Carl Cursive the Fair,
the son of late beloved Queen Claire.
Tannéntrier, the corded King;
Lord Turlock’s Naw; God’s Crystal Wing.
Redeemer, Savior, Citizen~ 5
the High King of Life’s Lurien.

~ ~ ~

Near twenty years ago, Harsh morn.

A rooster’s cry at dawn is borne
across the bloodied fields near Tin,
a tiny hamlet that knew sin. 10

The King professed he shall forgive.
Though offered, they choose not to live.

One hundred simple farmer folk
sit clustered round a fire’s smoke
lamenting the last bites of food. 15
‘Twas left upon a flat and crude
hewn stone that stood outside of town,
in deference left unto the crown.

A piece of bread and mug of wine,
a knife and fork of but two tine. 20
The only things here left to eat~
no beer and there is no dried meat.

The rooster heard is distant, small
and hence, would be no help at all.
The water’s bad, arsenic they say. 25
Those gone to well have chose to stay.

Yet, here with heart and patience sit
this simple group as nobles fit
to rule a land of honest folk
who bear with grace the heavy yolk 30
of life demanding and what’s more,
the right to give their lives for store
they now hold safe from their own King.

Though tales in time may others sing
of what they do in faith today, 35
the reasons why they will not say.
None here the stomach for such tales
that whine and bitterly bewails
what they do now because they must.
They owe themselves at least this trust. 40

For deep inside the hamlet’s inn
lay he who was their paladin.

The King’s Men on the outskirts wait
in much the same mood as of late.
Still waiting for the town to send 45
the ailing man out to the bend
in rough dirt road where stands the stone
where waits the bread on plate of bone.

A ways on down the road they hold
their men aback, their patience cold. 50
The very tall Lieutenant had
a richly bound, small papyrus pad
that gave the clear, unstinting term~
precisely how long they must squirm.

He may not take the man from here~ 55
they must surrender him in fear.

~ ~ ~

Concerning man who sleeps on bed
within their tiny inn who’d said
some revolutionary things~
the King made reference to the wings 60
that one must cut away from pork
before one eats with knife and fork.

That men should be allowed to sell
the things they learn to make right well
as craft from hands and speculate 65
was treason he’ll not tolerate.

That men should make a chair with hands
then send it far across the lands
for those within the King’s fool pay
to sell without the craftman’s say 70
was height of system’s foolishness.

The man had asked “where was redress”?

As citizen of Kingdom’s law
what must he do to law withdraw?

Though some of what he had to say 75
at first contentious try to sway
the King to clearer thinking was
quite humorous, his long term cause
was perilous. The King was mad,
he whispered soft, even by sad 80
standards of norm for monarchs late
to throne. His need of such was sate.

‘Twas time, he said, for men alone
to take control of what they own.

The Council of the King had laughed 85
at first when man had claimed his craft
was his to ask for what he wants.
“Fool nonsense”, said the King. His taunts
were treason. “Craftsmen’s hands are mine.”
The young man crossed a chosen line. 90

In his perspective they were few
to choose from. He knew his due.

Upon a box of soap he stood.
One he had craft with his own wood.

He drew a knife a friend had made. 95
He had insist~ his friend was paid.
The terms were neither known nor spoke.
“And should the knife be ever broke,
I shall direct speak to my friend.”

To this alone the King attend 100
when brought it was by messenger,
but that he next did would ensure
his due attent. “Unearth the snide
and knavish fool where’er he hide.
Naught comes twixt he and me in life.” 105

The bearded, long haired strapper’s knife
was large and sharp~ a fighting thing.

Upon the box in center ring
of that small hamlet west called Tin,
in full view of a growing din 110
of guardsmen, farmfolk, children, more
he held the knife and careful tore
the calloused palm of his left hand.

“This hand is mine, you understand?”

The humour of the King turned black. 115
He fain would meet this maniac.
“Bring him to me.” The mad King said.
“But Gods of Hell bring him quite dead.”

What humour left the man now stray,
for he had come with purpose fey. 120

“Lurien rules the King,” he cried.
“There is no place for choosing side.
These lands are free, not his but yours
where bear sleeps deep and eagle soars.

We grant the throne that he might rule. 125
It is no simple tyrant’s stool.”

The people asked of him his clan.
“‘Tis yours.” He said. Then, “Oppidan
so call me for our clans are one.”

And so at last his task’s begun. 130
He swift began his ministry,
for such the people called esprit
with which he spoke and traveled far.

At first the King sent men to bar
his movement thru communities 135
that offered their amenities.

He spoke of truths that none decried
and though it was the King who lied,
he would not tarry long lest might
of this mad royal kill all in sight 140
to brace in shackles Oppidan.

Thus, none knew where this brave young man
would sudden show as fire brand
in random sites throughout the land.

He carefully brought to his side 145
a small group in which he confide.
Perhaps a dozen though their count
would change a bit each time his fount
of wisdom was brought forth anew
in court or tavern’s ballyhoo. 150

Of course the rumors danced and roared~
a peasant, soldier, rich man, lord?
Enigmas wrapped in riddles coy
and nowhere did he hide the joy
that came with keeping wonder hot. 155

In Canvas On The River fraught
with danger he spoke all his mind.

“I need not keep the King maligned.
His policies are cruel and wrong,
but need they stay as such for long? 160
His seat is not a guarantor
of right to rule, for all our lore,
dispute it not, is filled with free
and honest men whose destiny,
though oft fought for, has always been 165
and shall remain our sovereign.”

In Canvas Tier and Kizer north
he all but dared the King come forth
and kill him with blue bloodied hands.

His crying taunts and reprimands 170
were issued hot thru tears of grief.

Still nothing of himself so brief
would he explain and thus when next
the crowds came wondering and perplexed
in greater numbers still to hear, 175
no sign there was of bitter tear.

The people called for him to go
to Laura glistening below
the White Salt Cliffs past western shore.
“I’ll not,” he said. “For nothing more 180
or less will I accept from you
than all free men now active sue
as one to wrongful fire douse
of errant sovereign in that house.”

The nature of his travels changed. 185
He moved more swiftly and arranged
that he come closely to such guard
who could no longer disregard
the number and fell moods of those
who list defiant and who chose 190
to bear their arms, in secret once,
now less than brazen for the nonce.

The King was torment undeterred.
Compassion he has long abjured.
For many in Life’s Lurien 195
the throne he sits, he sits in sin.
Deceit and murder, theft and force,
he cared not whit nor varied course.

“You know whose life he wrongful took!
Will you allow her be forsook?” 200
Hereafter, he spoke open scorn,
of civil speech completely shorn.

No armor wore he and such blade
he bore was still his “friend” had made.
Ne’erless his men in retinue 205
bore arms themselves and numbers grew.

Upon the docks and warehouse floor
where count of people quickly soar,
one did not need an abacus
to know what King and aides discuss. 210

E’er tighter his own people hem.
The might now stirred the King must stem.

No one in all the land believed
that mad King Cartive, so relieved
of phrenic grace (yet cunning still), 215
would hesitate to force his will
thru slaughter leaving naught but waste~
he’d long since learned to love the taste.

Three decades now had passed since purge
his father led and lands immerge 220
beneath the seas of sinless blood.
He anxious yearns for his own flood.

A tipping point had come they knew
and where it leads known by but few.

~ ~ ~

Fair Oppidan moved often sly. 225
To north and lands familiar hie.
Sometimes near all but come alone,
he’d show a sudden at a stone
that stood child’s height on roads near Tin
and whisper, sing or gently spin. 230

The old man living near the rock
waved arms to shush his raucous flock
of geese (just six) and came for turn
around his smiles. Then said, “A burn
of epic size there is just down 235
this road a ways. I’m sure they’ll crown
a fine young man as you with beer
if you’ve a tale to share and cheer.”

The dirty, tired, rud young man
stopped dancing and with hand so tan 240
you’d lose it in the dark, put arm
(as hardened as if come from farm)
about the sweet, round gent and said,

“Mayhap old man, warrant you dread
the length I talk if beer is good. 245
I’ve heard it’s aged in Fardor wood.”

The old man wistful (aye, he cried),
said, “Molly will be fit and tied.”

And down the road as friend with friend
(you can’t tell which is which this end) 250
they danced a creaky jig to Tin
for song and beer at Father’s Sin.

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Last few words: 
Welcome Rula and all else who dare. I hope to see Carrie here one day.
Editing stage: 


Your language and descriptive write is top line, I do hope that more will read and make suggestions if needed.
Though I find it easy to read the length to me at the moment is a test of endurance.
Well done and the best of writing to your quill young epic writer,
Yours Ian.T

There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

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