The Dirge of Drew

This is not my tale, but is of one I knew as brother. Drew, 'Loyalty Unto Death' his name. Remember it well, those of Luna Mother. Dirge sang by Bailey Rae, Iron Master and Cahalith.

He stood at Tintagel facing moors the White Hunt claims

Alone without pack mate, without friend

Reflecting on the actions he undertakes, he questions his sanity

He considers the Sparrow Claw Circle and how this could end

How their very existence here is a profanity

The distance to the moors a mere fifteen mile hike

But care must be taken even on his route to the edge

For danger lurks on the moors ready to strike

As long as he draws breath he shall not quit, this is his pledge

He calls upon his gifts of stealth, powerful and skilled is he in their application

That when still, he is as a shadow in the night, imperceptible

When in motion every footfall, every movement is considered in his dedication

Though to him, only his fastest pace is acceptable

Through his eyes he sees both worlds and sees the emptiness

Few spirits remain and nought but birds fly lazily in the sky

He crosses into the moors themselves and raises his wariness

Finding no difference as he draws shadow nigh

It wraps into, around him, he becomes of it and he presses on

He travels less than a mile before he finds a great stone

A marker in the other, its message "This is ours, now be gone"

Great bloody tears weep over a carved outline of a bird that has flown

Forging on finding an alter in which the sparrow is carved once more

Fresh blood covers the ground and anoints the carving

He spies a collection of radio masts, towards the heavens they soar

About their structures dances yellow-white lightning

A great spire rises further into the sky behind

In the other storm clouds banish sight of sun and mother, all grows dark

Towards the prison a road is inclined

Towards Dartmoor, it's growing Cathedral gloomy and stark

Onward he presses, across ground open and broken

Patches of cover reveal themselves as places of guard

To Luna a quick prayer is spoken

As weeds, gorse and small bushes make the going hard

Two men sit on watch from a 'hide', almost catching Drew unaware

Three red pinpoints trial from the corner of each man's eye to adorn his face

Passing on one side, he continues on as soon as he dares

Warily scanning both worlds as he increases his pace

Upon him did the strain of watching both worlds weigh

As the land becomes ever more open and desolate

And before him an old farm lay

His courage mighty but his trepidation great

As there many men, with the same adornment on their faces, stand

A score of cars, 4x4s and pick-up trucks parked by their sides

They do not even notice as he passes by their land

Further onwards into the moors he strides

He sees the single spire reaching for the skies; it is no distance away at all

It is clear that the cathedral spans the entirety of the prison

Hollow lightening crackles between the masts so tall

The storm mars the wound where darkness has arisen

Here he reached his crossroads; continue on and commit himself to fate and luck

Or turn back in failure of himself, his pack and his people

With a final thought to Cracks pavement and a nod to himself, on he struck

Onwards towards the great black steeple

Sticking to weed and scrub, into wolf-form he shifts

Cutting across tangles of ruined walls and rusted machinery

He stops to catch his breath as a voice behind him lifts

An engine roaring to life and shouting fills the scenery

Determined to see what lies ahead so his pack may be warned

He speeds across the uneven ground as it threatens to throw him to the turf

No matter the personal cost, at least he knows that he'll be mourned

A concealed tripwire brings him falling to the earth

But bruises matter not and he presses forward to reach his goal

A handful of meters lie between the storm in the Hisil and he

Bird shapes flap through angry skies black as coal

Lightening crackles amongst skeletal masts menacingly

Gleaming metal and flashing red lights in the first world

But pitted with rust and stained with inky black webs in the Hisil

Faces leer, man and animal in torturous fornication curled

He suppresses the feeling of disgust the visage does instil

He steps on land that has been scarred with foul runes cut deep

They bubble with slime and blood, giving rise to a decaying stench

A great anger grips his slight Urhan form and he desires to weep

But he must continue on, though it is a wrench

The undergrowth seems to catch his paws and everything is wrong

Like a bolt from the heavens, from the towers the lightening jabs

And across the gauntlet it sends its prong

Then striking into drew the electricity stabs

Stunned for a moment with ringing in his ears, a sudden sting of fire

He is hit again, but by the silver bull bars of a heavy metal pick-up truck

He imprints all that he can about the dark spire

Four men jump down, moving towards him they look ready for a ruck

These are his last moments and he intends to live them well

He shifts from wolf to near man but still gets caught by a shot

Lead stings his face from a shotgun shell

Go out without a fight he will not

Two swords spin brightly in his hands, a howl of rage escapes his throat

A second shot fills the air and out, a section of Drew's leg is bit

It is ignored as under his blades, the first man is smote

Blood pours down his back, as with a third shot he is hit

The fluids of the first attacker cover his face and his soul sings

He slices deep into a second attacker and in such combat is joyous

Wildfire runs through him and another loud shot rings

He falls, happy that he has fulfilled his purpose

Slammed from consciousness, his soul howls for death

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