Balckwell Rising!

November 30, 2021

Broad-shouldered and broad-shielded stands
Tall Agamemnon, broadsword in his hands
Awaiting battle with some distant foe
Who in this desert blizzard dares to show
His face. It is his rival Gibbongod
Who, from atop a writhing sand dune gnawed
By time’s eroding winds’ ferocious speed,
Harkens to Agamemnon from his steed.
Through hurricanes of sand, and miles
A voice approaches; Agamemnon smiles
Hearing the words he always knew would come
As clear as an obnoxious may-fly’s hum,
“Agamemnon! I’ve ‘rrived at your behest
A war of words I hope you’ll not suggest,
I will not consider this fight unfurled
‘Til one of us has left this mortal world.”
With that, Gibbongod made a mighty leap
And landed gracefully atop a heap.
“Mere words? You well know I’ve but learned a few,
And even those I would not waste on you.
I too desire a battle to the death
‘Til one of us has breathed his final breath.”
Gibbongod leapt again, and now they two
Stood balanced on the self-same dust plateau.
An ancient ruin, forged by toiling slaves
Became the dueling ground of hate-filled knaves,
When these two met here for the last,
A final fight for all that made their past.
“My dear old friend,” Gibbongod said in jest,
While drawing knives from scabbards on his chest,
“You must recall clearly the way you fell
The last time you were privy to the Hell
That befalls all who witness my blades’ glint
Without retreating haste-wise in a sprint.
You think the outcome will be changed today?
Have you discovered some keen ancient Way?
Or has some circumstance within your life,
Some worthless training, bitter strife
Made you believe that——————………”

‘Memnon roars with laughter, and then speak,
“You act as if it has been merely weeks
Between the last and now. Two decades nigh
Have passed in just the blinking of your eye.
I s’ppose this shows how slow you have become;
Your once fierce mind in time becoming numb.
For me, I grow two-fold in strength each day
Because of what you guessed: an ancient Way,
But more than that, a teacher of renown
Who wears an em’rald cloak of mallard down.
I think you know him well; can you recall
Who, lone among so many, once stood tall,
Before your blades upon the battlefield
And all your God-like fury forced to yield?
Don’t tell me your decrepit muddled mind
Has cast away memories of such kind?
Reflect for now, on that one great mistake
You made against that foe adorned with drake.”
For one brief moment, Gibbon’s hesitation
Revealed his mem’ry of that past frustration,
His eyes grew wild, bewildered with dismay.
He laughed to try to hide the fear away.
“’God-like?’” began the God, on his back-foot,
“’God-like?’” repeated he, amazed at what
Agamemnon would dare to speak aloud.
An insult harms most those among the proud.
“This harsh fury is Godly, not god-like;
My strength can fell a mountain in one strike!
I can reverse a river’s blist’ring flow,
And as for you, it would but take one blow
To send you into fatal lost dimensions
And make them home to your ‘ternal detentions.
As for the man you speak of, that cheap mage
Who naught but ripped a spell from some old page
Written by ancients wiser than all men
Combined, and even Gods still greater than—
That cheap conjurer of still cheaper tricks,
That so-called seer playing with his sticks
And twigs and little playthings of such sort;
I hold that man to be of no import.”
“If you’ve no fear, then dare to speak his name!”
“I do not care to give him undue fame!”
“Ha!” Agamemnon laughed, with face of mirth,
“Then you too know what goodly fame is worth,
That fame that brings disciples to your side
And spreads around your message far and wide.
‘Tis Falsital of Wizzeroth, we mean,
That man whose name casts menace in your spleen
Such that you dare not even say the word
For fear that it per chance be overheard
And send another foll’wer to his shack
To learn the ways of defence and attack
That spurn your blades of adamantine make
And will this day your Godly lifeblood take.
Stricken mountains and reverséd rivers,
Lit volcanoes and tectonic shivers,
May numb the spines of weak and shallow men
Who do not fight, but only move a pen,
But true champions know that Falsital
Has powers that can overcome them all,
That bend e’en rocks and stones’ souls to his will
And grind men’s bones like flour in a mill.
The small amount he has taught me so far
Will be enough to overcome in war
Any foe, even a God such as you
When combined with my broadsword that can hew
A thousand mountains with a single swipe.”
“Enough of this foolish nonsens’cal tripe!”