L'morberec
Magnyss

In the Background of the Night

Misty veils of cloud drift by
the night's pall sun; the moon.
Spreading round their whitened rust
Below like frightened esper dust.

Moonbeams glare 'pon earth below,
lucent shades of grey; their flow
will render all in clors wane
And frighten men with light's restrain.

Here, laws of men will rot away
meaning little more than dust;
Here, shadows will rear up and play
living lives of carnal lust.

Night is a sacred time, to these, the spawn of night
Where manlings run and hide; awaiting sacred light.

Here the world of night resides
and trespassers will be denied
their right to live, their right to breathe
if by encrouach of Ancient creed.

The night is spirit's pasture;
deamons in its darkling flock
But what sets evil's nature
by men or magic's clock?

The clues to our riddle are not found in books
But rather, in actions, in words and in looks.

On this very night, it shall be known,
a man flees with a thing not his own.
A widow's peak adorns his crown,
his hair a dirty clotted brown.

Down the darkened lane he flees,
from the church; prays no one sees
the thing he's taken in his haste
from the lure of money's taste.

In this dark, this base thief runs
by use of shadows not for man.
His crime does not go unnoticed;
night-borne eyes can see his plan.

This church is old, of grandest make
protected by magic of ancient good-sake.
Its steeple is tall, its innards are rich
with items of finest gold grain and stitch.

The old building's top, a bell tower tall,
Upon which the moonlight is shining pall.

An ageless monument to time,
above him watch two stony eyes
the witness to this stealthy crime;
a lifeless bulk hunched e'er in place.

And frozen fast in stone-hard base,
A soulless beast of stone condoned
and forced to bear the rain and mold;
a watchful guard who keeps this place.

A hellish guard whose duty true;
to watch the dark, eternal night.
With grey-black wings and horns time two;
he well sees this man's flight.

Hunter's Prey

Darting backward through the murky dark; he hides in inky swells
And heaves his breath, his task is done! He's thwarted capture's bells!

I've done it at last! I've got it! It's mine!
so much planning, and essence of time
paid off in truth! That stodgy old priest
will never think to blame this on me!

I think to myself as I gather my breath
of the money I'll get after selling this off.

It's gold, I'm sure! It scares me to death
to think of the curse others scoff;
I've heard stories of curses, but none of them real
and merely ways to fend away dangers of steals.

But this precious thing, this babule of gold
seems magicked to me, and valu'bly old.
I risked my neck, getting into that place;
nothing will stop me in this money race.

The cool of this metal I lean on
helps calm me and wanes my fear; gone.
I am alright now; my shamed deed is done.
With this money, I'll no longer need run.

A dumpster covers my ground.
the alley's mouth is right there...

A thud shakes the ground, and scatters his gaze
more so than it would have during lit days...

Hey, what the hell was that sound?!
Did some stray thunder fall near?

Nothing can be seen; no beast or stalker rises into view.
He calms himself down; no twitch of night will make him fear anew.

Jesus, I'm edgy. It must be that church.
That's got to be it, of this I am sure.
Stealing is not a new thing to me,
But even a church might possibly be...

There's something watching me!
I can feel it behind!
I must be thinking a lie;
It's only in my mind...

I'm getting nervous, I don't know just why;
My palms are sweating, and I want to fly.
I wipe off my forehead and stare into the dark.
I see only shadows; ain't that a lark?

I know I'm not followed! Of this I made sure!
That preacher's been knocked cold, right on the floor.
I move out from my dark cover, my shoes
Walking mroe than I; this fear won't shake loose...

Prey's Hunter

I see you sir, in shades of moonlight grey
as your feet hope to hasten me away.

Something is there! I feel it now!
It's watching me! But where ad how?

Your blood beats hot and fast, and needs a quick release.
It is my given right, and not a brow will crease.
I'll let you go, but in rent pieces;
to sate the toll your theft surceases.

I turn to face the dark around.
Who's there? I call. My voice is creaking!

I nearly wish to laugh aloud.
Tis only I, your shadow speaking.

My steps are quicker now, and turning panicked.
I've got to leave this alley!

You seem to sense me now, and your blood is quicked;
your fear has turned to folly.

I cannot think what could hate me
that wants to frighten me to flee.
What thing could grip a soul this way
to hunt me down and likewise slay?

O little man of measly virtue
Do you think I wish to hurt you?
In truth, I fear, I must admit it:
I do! You've fallen to deserve it!

I guard my haunt through endless time
with spells of Old you can't contrive.
I watch all those who dwell within
and shield them from the outside sin.

And you, you wretched little flea
have robbed my hall and angered me.
You've bruised that honest papal elf
And brought this curse upon yourself.

The thief stands cold with sweat, staring wide-eyed and trembles still.
His fears grip him, he knows not why. He fears some nearing ill.

What can I do? I'm petrified!
I simply know I'm being eyed!
Is there time to get clean away,
Or will that lead up to my slay?

I shift a bit to ready my feet
in hopes my predator they might beat.
The dust below might make me trip;
I'd rather that than have flesh rip!

Show yourself, Devil! I cry behind
clutching bauble closer, nearly blind.
The dark tars my eyes and wilts my will;
I hope for silence and fear it still.

A devil am I?  You think too much
of your Race, running from death's dire clutch.
You live in the day and foul your crown,
assuming this world is yours alone.

Am I the hated spawn of hell
or is it you, who earns death's knell?
Your flesh of slime, your bones of dust
Consume the world with greed and lust.

Our races are that of kindred in hates,
when will you opt to just let us be?
Your pores, that flesh, it will only rage me
the longer I crouch here to ponder your fate.

You are the night's worst irritant,
so arrogant and loud;
I'll give us all a long-due grant,
deny your heart to pound!

What in hell or heaven higher,
was that thing I just saw yonder!?
Were those some eyes, litten by themselves
or am I blinded by fear's own swells?

Our madness is your precious art;
trapped in night-freed forms of stone
as we stare back with your apathy.
Damn you! False-faced ingrates, all!

To be rid of you and yours, I'll forfeit myself!
To my position and the guarding of that elf!

The thief decides to turn and run, bereft of any sense,
His footprints leaving spastic marks, forgetting shadow's lens.
He runs for life, toward the street, and hoping he will live,
Although he has no clue of harm from which for life to strive.

He runs, he runs, he cannot think
of drowning in his fear's dark drink!
Too late, your penance to my Laws
I'll introduce you to my claws!

Your crime surpasses that of men,
you've stolen what is mine.
Your final hour has chased you down;
you've stolen what is mine!

A shadow rears, his fear is known, it is a monstrous form.
Ten times his height the blackness looms and dwarfs him like a worm.
His hope is gone, his flight is naught, and terror sweeps him now.
His bauble drops, forgotten now, and fate becomes his gown.

In the Aftermath of Dawn

The morning dawns, the darkness shatters,
the blackbirds turn to doves and scatter.
The light is free to roam once more,
since having thrown off night before.

But in another part of dawn,
Stirs up a little something more.
Between a score of stifled yawns,
disturbance makes this dawn seem sore.

A clutcho f medics and detectives,
stand grimly contemplating lives
at an alley's dark mouth, shocked;
from the church, one single block.

The men stand agape and scribble notes,
some speak in shock and tug their coats;
at a statue not seen here before,
at an armless golem bathed in gore.

Blood has been gushed, now dried and caked brown
from stone stumps and pits, upon the ground
where arms had once moved
and eyes should have sit.

This statue, a monument of carnal gore;
Its face is a grim study in fear and terror.
Limbless and sightless, and crafted with great care
the essence of evil it now seems to bear.

This unfortunate man, now cursed and frozen
In a bond of eternal grey stone,
Seems so lifelike; its screaming now blunted
By the means of its dying, now gone.

It belongs in a museum, but here by the street
It bears a message, a plaque in its feet.
Above the brown pool of its own dried up life,
a scripture lies written in the stone of its strife:

"We, the cherubs of the night
defy you deamons of the light.
How many crimes must we endure?
We're taking back our rightful world!"

It seems a portent, this one mere clue
borne by the stone man; quoth grim and true.
How it came to pass, they could not say,
only that it would be a very long day.

This case has them baffled; they've ne'er seen like it before.
One vagabond man, seemingly turned to stony gore.
And the the old bruised priest, just hassled, who reported this hack,
Yet nothing is missing, lest it possessed the mind to walk back.

But high atop the fracas, unseen by those below,
In the bell-tower's bright sheen the sun's answer burned.
It seems a mixed blessing; just the morning will know
Of one missing stone gargoyle who never returned.