Cataclysm

POETRY NEWS #4465
Date: 11/06/2013 at 02:27
From: Sentinel Raven Khangar, Island Adventurer
To : Everyone
Subj: Cataclysm

The Gods were young,
The planet new,
Sapience was afire.
No life in view.

Far to the east,
On a desolate plain,
Set on an island,
Hidden in the rain.

Life was begun,
The bright little spark,
A beacon of light,
In a world full of dark.

The Gods had created,
A sapient race,
In this barren,
Desolate place.

The Gods, they noted,
The race might soon starve
So from the stone,
The soil they did carve.

And there They grew,
The trees and the brush,
In a matter of days,
From barren to lush.

The race soon thrived,
They spread 'long the shore,
Always searching,
Searching for more.

For the Gods had created,
But They had forgot,
A fundamental principle,
Else all be for naught.

The race soon grew lonely,
The Gods soon grew bored,
So They began,
To shape and to form.

Some moved the land,
Tall mountains and hills,
Beaches of sand,
Springs and clear rills.

Others took fire
And made life anew,
From the greatest of wolves,
To the meekest of shrews.

And so on this isle,
This land full of life,
The First grew hateful,
Hearts filled with strife.

The First felt abandoned,
Unwanted, Unloved.
They felt they had angered
The Gods high above.

And so they went out,
And slaughtered the lot,
A bloodthirst grew strong,
So they battled and fought,

The Gods were concerned,
For the First had turned,
So hateful they were,
They slashed and they burned.

No matter Their actions,
The First were not pleased,
With each new spark snuffed,
Their thirst left unappeased.

The Gods in their Garden,
Argued and fought,
O'er the lives of the First,
And the deaths they had wrought.

But down on the island,
There was one of the First,
Who wasn't a murd'rer,
Though he was well versed.

He spoke to his people,
He gathered their vote,
And of his ascention,
The Gods took no note.

For while they were bickering,
Looking down from on high,
This leader, this madman,
Turned from the sky.

Renouncing the Gods,
For he and his kin,
Embracing their hatred,
Through anger and sin.

The First burned their shrines,
Knocked down the walls
Of their great temples,
And throughout the halls,

Outrage was heard,
And soon They all knew
The First were a problem,
And starting with Two,

One by one,
They all agreed,
And end to the First
Was a dire need.

For the First had been woven,
Of earth and of Fate,
And thus they were eternal,
As would be their hate.

So all 'round the First,
They raised up the land,
Burying them in soil,
Covering them with sand.

And then came the Sea,
To cover the lot,
This was the wrath,
The Garden had brought.

It was but a prison,
As the First could not die,
Deep beneath they waves,
To this day they still lie.

For thousands of years,
The isle was sunk,
And such was its lore,
Forgotten by all but one Monk,

Many years later,
Not long ago.
A champion triumphed,
Both through strength and through show.

A boon he was granted,
A powerful staff,
He plunged into the ground,
As if it a gaff.

And as he did such,
The earth it did shake,
And far out to sea,
The surface did break,

The tip of a mountain,
Covered in sand,
The gift of an island,
For a champion grand.

But little they knew,
For it was this isle,
Where the First lay buried,
Alive all the while.

And deep beneath the waves,
Under this odd little rock,
Their hatred grew strong,
And the gods they did mock.

Growing discomfort,
Boredom and pain,
Deep beneath the prison,
Hidden in the rain.

And Prasset lay hidden,
For thousands of years,
A prison long buried,
Flooded with Tears.

Should the First be released,
The end shall be near.
And now that it's risen,
Have we something to fear?

Penned by my hand on the 6th of Lupar, in the year 639 AF.