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The Brazen SongThere once was a band both brazen and bold
Seeking the dangers but rarely the gold
Surviving on little but sheer, dumb luck
From beholders and goblins to just getting stuck
In mud, snow and sand, and the darkness below
From dried-up deserts to where mushrooms grow
They made their friends and went on their way
Parting with smiles, never to stay
Long is their road, still they move on
Even after the world is gone
From the Little Folk's home, a long time no see
The halfling named Thoven left to be free
From bad luck to good, he struck indeed gold
When the dwarf he met got his first idea sold
Runna the name, dwarf be the race
Endures the blows, but shows little of grace
Heart of gold and justice strong
As patient of fools as her beard is long
Swift and deadly on silent feet
Corria the ranger, with her bow she'll greet
Of elfkind true, from among the trees
Loving the life and loving the peace
Graced by fey and man she is
A sorceress with the sweetest kiss
Iriaga of frost and Iriaga of fire
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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