http://www.mbouchard.com/misc/The-Warlords-Treasure.mp3
The warlord sits upon his throne
and looks down at his trophies fine
as spoils of ivory, gold and stone
by hall fire light do brightly shine
Music swells throughout his hall
laughter of men and women brave,
who though not vassal and not thrall
their devotion gladly gave.
A fine-wrought blade rests at his side,
A cup sits warming in his hand
He thinks on that which he loves best
A summer war – one battle grand.
Not two score of men had he
To take to fight a fearsome foe
which had defeated many times
and buried men where they must go.
From tattered men, companions made
he ruled them with both love and fear,
united in his iron hand
they became warriors o’re the year.
Decked in royal raiment bright
blessed by those whose love they knew
they marched as one upon the field,
toward brutal paths they would pursue.
The sun rose red that battle day
o’re the green it burned from high
for him they swore to take the soil
dauntless, stalwart doubt deny.
The horns and men raised up a call
The sides met in a crash of sound
their warcries could be heard for miles
their fighting shook the very ground.
The sun had not a minute moved
when all went silent, soft and still
the warlord’s men looked each around
their battle won through strength and will
Neglect, defeat they overcame –
this company had rallied strong:
They took that ground in Feral’s name
and used that name as triumph-song.
Well ensconced with kings and knights,
and beauteous folk who oft pass round
Among the treasures gathered near,
He favors visions of that ground.
The memories of these brothers brave
Upon green fields where they had vied
Above all victories he has known
None lights his eyes with greater pride.
The warlord sits upon his throne
and looks down at his trophies fine
as spoils of ivory, gold and stone
by hall fire light do brightly shine
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
This song is a gift-song for Master Feral, who approached me after the Pennsic field battle to “beg a boon” which surprised (and delighted!) me. Of course, I would not refuse Master Feral, especially when he asked for a song for the Unbelted Champions Team, of which we already know I’m just a bit fond. There was already one song which had pushed a chorus on me, about the Captain and the team together and I really, really tried to make this song be just about *this* team. However, what I know of *this* team came down to a few things which stood out in conversations, over and over:
1 – They had been Chosen, and Chosen by Master Feral.
2 – They were being given the chance to build and rebuild in his trust that they would do it well, and by heaven’s name, they were not going to let him down
3 – Many look to him as a war-god and battle-father, and this battle was their devotion
I, meanwhile, just couldn’t separate this team from it’s Master. It was Master Feral’s pride in them that made this war worth winning, and his overt joy in their success which assured them that they had actually won the thing.
And so, when I thought on the words he had spoken about this team being his pride and that he had never been prouder of a victory than of this one, the song knew what it wanted to be, clearly, and all previous attempts were scrapped. It is a song of a warlord in his grand feast hall, watching from his seat on the dais as his company eats and plays dice and arm wrestles and tells no s*%t-there-I-was stories with mugs in hand. About the hall are all these trophies and spoils of war – statues, weapons, heads and horns of gigantic beasts of legend, suits of ornate armor, masses of gold and gem-encrusted objects of all sorts. Near him sits a minstrel, quietly strumming a chord in the din. She notices that he does not pay heed to the golden things, or the prizes, but looks only with shining eyes at his warriors, remembering the day which he prizes above all those glittering things – one summer war, one battle grand.
So while it was a commission for Master Feral, it also became a song about him, and about what I think means most to the team – even more than victory – that their warlord saw their deed, and in it found joy.
-a