King Of Worms

King Of Worms

O’ sacred isle of Ebony, where light infuses air, O’er towers, gentle breezes flow,
Softly sloping green kissed cliffs to crashing foam below,
Always springtide, afternoon housed within its border.
This mystic, mis-preotected home of the Valerius Order:
Those councilors of Kings, cautious, wise & fair.

Ten score years & thirty since the mighty Grado’s fell,
Two brilliant students studied within the Valerius’ fold.
One’s heart was light & warm, the other dark & cold.
The madder latter Valin, whirled in a deathly dance.
His soul in bones & worms, the way of the necromance.
Entrapping & enslaving souls, he cast a wicked spell.
The former, Ferilance had magic bold & bright as day. He confronted Valin beneath grey Cephorus Tower, saying,
“Your wicked mysticism is no way to wield your power, bring horror to the spirit realm, your studies must cease!”
Valin scoffed, hating the ways of life & peace, & then returned to his dark artistry:
His paints death & decay.

O sacred isle of Ebony, how slow to perceive the threat, when the ghastly truth revealed, ho weak the punishment.
The ghoulish Valin, from the isle of Ebony he was sent, to the mainland of Albion, more death & souls to reap.
“You have found a wolf, & sent the beast to a flock of sheep” Ferilance told his Masters “a terror upon Albion has set”
“Speak no more of him!” the sage cloaks of Black did say.
T’ was not the first time Ferilance thought his masters callous, unconcerned for men & mer, aloof in their island palace, t’ was not the first time Ferilance thought it time to build a new order to bring magic to all, a mighty Mages Guild.
But t’ was the first time he left at last, fair Ebony’s azure bay.

O but sung we have of Galare Ferilance many times before,
How cast he off the Valerius’ chains, bringing magic to the land.
Throughout the years, he saw the touch of Valin’s hand,
Through Albion’s deserts, forests, towns, mountains & seas.
The dark grip stretching out, growing like some dread disease.
By his dark Necromancers, collecting cursed artifacts of yore. They brought to him these tools, mad wizards & witches. And brought bloodstained herbs & oils to his cave of sin.
Sweet Palonerian poison, dust from Felucia’s saints, sheaves of human skin.
Toadstools, roots & much more cluttered his alchemical shelf.
Like a spider in his web, he sucked all their power into himself, Valin, Worm King, worlds first undying Ditritus.
Corruption on corruption, ‘til the rot sunk deep into his very core. Though he kept the name Valin, his body & his mind where but a living, moving corpse as he left humanity behind. The blood in his veins became a poison acid stew. His power & his life increased as his fowl collection grew.
Mightiest where these artifacts, long cursed since the days of yore.
They say that Ferilance left the Guild, calling it “a morass”.
But untruth is a powerful stream, polluting the river of time.
Ferilance beheld Valin’s rise through powers sublime. To his mages & battlemages, “Before my last breath, Face I must, the tyranny of worms & kill at last, underneath.”

He led them north to cursed lands, to a mountain pass. O those who survived the battle say its like was seen never again. Armored with magic, armed with enchanted sword & axe. Ferilance cried, echoing,
“Worm King, surrender your artifacts, & their powers & you shall live as fitting of the dead.”
A hollow laugh answered. “You die first,” Valin said.
The mage army the dashed with the unholy force obscene. Imagine waves of fire & frost & the mountain shivers.
Picture lightning arching forth, crackling in a dragon’s sigh.
Like leaves, the battlemages fly to rain down the sky.
At the necromancer’s call, corpses burst from earth to fight, to be shattered into nothingness with a burst of light.
A maelstrom of energy unleashed, blood cascades in rivers.
Like a thunderburst in blue skies or a lion’s sudden roar, like sharp razors tearing over delicate embroidered lace.
So at a touch did Ferilance shake the mountain to its base. The deathly horde fell fatally, but heeding their dying cries, from the depths the thing they called the Worm King did rise.

The planet itself did scream during the mage’s & necromancer’s war.
His eyes burning dark fire he opened his toothless maw,
Vomiting darkness with every exhalation of his breath.
All sucking in the fetid air felt the icy tough of death, In the skies above the darkness turned pale.
Then Valin, Worm King, felt his dismal powers fail:
The Artifacts of death pulled from his putrid skeletal claw.

A thousand good & evil perished then, history confirms. Among them, Galare Ferilance, who showed the way.
Scattered seemed the necromancers, wicked, ghastly fools.
Back to the Mages Guild, the victors kept the accursed tools of him, living still underneath, Valin, King of Worms.

Children, listen as the shadows cross your sleeping hutch.
And the village sleeps away, streets emptied of the crowds.
And the moons so balefully glare through the night clouds.
And the graveyard’s people rest, we hope, in eternal sleep.
Listen & you’ll hear whispered taps of wormlike footsteps creep.

Then pray you’ll never fell the Worm King’s awful touch.