God of Poems

The god tilts his head curiously, his silks rippling like the surface of water, regarding his new visitor with startling blue eyes. "Few find this shop, let alone enter it." He pointedly looks around his humble abode, filled with various objects and art pieces made by dragons long dead. "Are you here to buy something? No... Perhaps you are here for a poem." Apollo smiles warmly and beckons you forwards. "Here, sit." Pushing forwards a silk pillow with his tail, he turns to the counter and grabs a quill pen and a bottle of ink, before laying a piece of paper upon the table that separates you both. "Perhaps you could tell me a bit about yourself..."

Morana settled onto the pillow with a fluid grace unexpected from such an imposing figure. She rested one gold taloned paw over the other and leveled her gaze with the Imperial across the table. "I'm not usually one to indulge in the arts. However, I've heard that you are among the best in the craft, that your skill with language is...transcendent." She paused, remembering the praise her minstrel had lavished upon the artist. 'The God of poets!' Hypnos had eagerly informed her, 'If you truly wish to have a poem worthy of telling your feats, then you must seek him out!'

Morana lowered her antler-crowned head respectfully before the God who took the form of an Imperial. "I am a child of winter and death, it is all I have ever known, and I am stronger because of it. I am no God nor dragon of important heritage, but I have rallied a clan behind that very strength. The strength of will to defy death and forge one's own destiny. I take great pride in the clan I have founded and the life I've carved out for myself in the harsh, winter cliffs. Yet, I have grown old, as mortals do. Thus, to have my legacy live on not only in memory, but in a written tale, would be of a great honor."

Apollo's eyes darkened when the dragoness settled herself before him, her armored talons chilling his scales as they settled atop his own, pinning him with ancient eyes that betrayed little. He did not doubt that she could be as cruel as the blade slung at her hip, and he did not doubt that she knew of what he truly was. The god smiled grimly then, murmuring, "So accustomed to the cold, you would not know when it is the sun warming your back, and not the fur of the beasts you have slain."

He pulled away then, reaching beneath the table, his paws reappearing clasping a vial of swirling gold. "You remind me of an ancient society, one that would preach its heroic tales in ballads, sung to great crowds drunk on the ecstasy of victory. They were an empire that lived for many, many long years." Pulling the cork from the vial, he dipped the tip of his quill into the gold ink, and then turned to the parchment. "It was a golden age, one doomed to fade into a world of words."

-
Oh, daughter winter!
Oh, daughter death!
Hear my cries, my wails,
spread your wings far,
and cradle your undeserving child.
I yearn for a home, I say,
and here fourth, you carve through mountains,
shaping a dwelling made of stone.
I hunger, I say,
and you hook your black claw,
into warm flesh to fill an aching belly.
I fear the night, I say,
so you perch upon the highest cliff face,
and howl like a savage wolf,
to scare away.
Oh, daughter winter!
Oh, daughter death!
Hear my cries, my wails,
curl your tail round,
and rock your undeserving child.
I am cold, I say,
and here fourth, you share what little warmth,
that you possess.
I am tired, I say,
and you reveal your paw,
for my head to rest upon.
I am grateful, I say,
watching you smile,
your maw stained red,
and your eyes hungering.
Oh, daughter winter!
Oh, daughter death!
Hear my cries, my wails,
sink your teeth into my scruff,
and carry your undeserving child.
I want victory, I say,
and here fourth, with each lumbering step,
you bring us to a divine, conquered world.
I want plunder, I say,
and you toss to us,
the spoils of war.
I want more, I say,
watching you rise to the skies,
your golden armor gleaming,
as you ruthlessly rake in the world.
Oh, daughter winter!
Oh, daughter death!
Hear me cry, hear me wail,
watch me bow low,
your undeserving child.
I will follow only you, I say,
and here fourth, bring only glory and praise,
I wish to bestow upon you.
I will sing of you, I say,
and tip my head back,
roaring your name to the very heavens.
I will be loyal to you, I say,
accepting the chains of silver,
that are clasped around my neck,
and smile a foolish, undeserving smile.
-

The god laughs then when he finishes the ballad. "Be careful, daughter winter, daughter death. Such titles are the burdens you have decided to carry."

Morana's eyes narrowed to burning magenta slits and she hummed a deep rumble of approval. "Yes, I believe this is a worthy ballad. Let these titles that burden me so, too, laden the tongues of those who will call upon me until the end of days. Until my empire built on pillars of stone and ice crumbles and our memories are remembered only through ballads told around a dark fire..." She scooped up the parchment and replaced it with a bundle of gold coins. "God of Poets, my minstrel called you. Well..." Wet, ivory teeth gleamed as her dark lips pulled back into a rare grin. "Gods require an offering for their service, no? You have, too, my eternal gratitude. Perhaps we will meet again someday." The grin then fell from her lips and returned to a chilling, impassive mask. She offered a curt nod to signal her departure. After all, her clan would be eagerly awaiting for their Saviors return.