《Drinks For The Soul | Poetry》Of Victory:
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I'm bright,
Like a light,
That shines,
Throughout the night.
I'll guide foe and friend,
In the darkest days,
To shores that must be sung,
Not told,
For they are,
One-of-a-kind.
And from there,
I'll leap from world to world,
To win some,
And lose none,
Games that'll hand me gold.
I'm a winner,
Without a chicken dinner,
For I share my prizes,
Of smiles and witty guiles,
I'm everyone's biggest hitter.
You're welcome.
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War Dove
See chapters 33+ for edits. Under the thumb of the tyrannical King Keon, Glace's life has been anything but comfortable. Nobody is safe from his informants, who take the form of teachers, neighbors, and friends. Each time she meets with the Resistance, Glace risks imprisonment or death. But it's worth it, because they're her family. That's why, when the Resistance devises a plan to rob the city's capitol building, she doesn't hesitate to do what's expected of her. But escaping might just cost her everything. Follow Glace's story as she rises from the ashes of her past to realize her role as the king's worst enemy. Feedback is always welcome, but please be courteous as this is my first work. Bonus chapters are available on my patreon here: https://www.patreon.com/hekate37 This book has been split into two volumes and published on Amazon. Volume I: https://www.royalroad.com/amazon/B0B2X1CRFX Volume 2: coming soon Volume 3: coming one day... maybe
8 160Toothpick
“Hello! My humble audience! I, the Bard of the North, am going to tell you a tale. Nothing new, nothing old. A story of a hero, some may say, others a poor boy who was hated by the world.” The storyteller paused as he waited, right timing was everything when telling a story. Pacing… Too slow and the audience became bored then left without tossing even the smallest of coins. If he spoke too fast and rushed the story. It would leave the audience confused and having no reason to be impressed. So like any good storyteller, the Bard has to do a balancing act of sorts. Not too slow, not too fast. Just perfectly in the middle. “In a shattered country in the south, a novice princeling has the ambition to mend a torn tapestry that is his birthplace. Struggling to fend off those who would usurp the throne in an unending civil war spanning centuries. A mercenary that left only death in his wake, unable to stave off the monotony and peace of life. He looks back at the path laden with bodies, wondering if it was all worth it. Wandering souls summoned by a madman, travel away from a wasteland in a foreign land, the first alone, the others as companions. A deity, ancient in her years, waiting to be freed from a duty she no longer enjoys. For all these people and their stories, none are the hero of this tale. No, the hero is not grand, not wise, not ready.. he was punished for nothing of his doing, who was an outcast that was unloved by many, including his father.” This was always the big reveal novices use to jump off into their story. He did not start here, instead, like any good fishermen, he set the bait and waited until the fish bit before pulling. As he saw the audience's eyes focus, he then started the backstory. The harness, that stopped the listeners from having metaphorical whiplash. The foreshadowing. “But that is not where the story starts. No, not even the hero's birth. Where the story begins, is the boredom of the deity, a deity many know of. She who hunts for the impossible, the guide for those who have lost the path, the Huntress of Mallon--” A small pause, a short breath. “--All old names for a single powerful being that has roamed the grounds of this continent longer than any line of kings or queens, lords or ladies. A being of worship for many an individual…” One last breath. And he began singing the first verse.
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