A Pact for Ravens
Once upon a twilight glooming, while he wandered, mad and fuming –
Moonlit chamber, his last refuge from the siblings he denied.
Footfalls falling fast and faster, mind adrift with new disaster –
Both wished to be the new master, between them he could not decide.
"They shall be their own undoing, all their ego, all their pride --
Folly I need not abide."
But upon his heart a twinging, guilt his soul was set on binging,
Could he flee them: brother, sister, feuds, and fighting left aside?
Quiet Blacklake, home and haven -- freedom casts his name a craven.
Could he be that lonesome raven, absent duty once defied?
Doubts did harrow doubtful Osric, all the shame to name implied --
Protests he, "... for them, I tried."
Grace and mercy he attempted - no tact nor craft was left exempted.
Brother flattered, sister sweet-talked, once and twice and thrice he vied.
On their faces they delighted; in their hearts they still felt slighted –
nursing grievance, they recited all the treasons each belied.
Naught could shake them from their umbrage: charms, and wit, and guile plied.
Anguish, anger then collide.
“Futile is this” he resented, “mending crimes still unrepented –
No more. Enough. I’ve paid my due – and now I go with giant’s stride.
Far from war of sibling rivals, to the Gate I chase survival –
Where my spirit finds revival, gone from they, my siblings snide.
Carriage, ship, or spell I seek to take me fleeting from their side.
Dare they stop me, woe betide.”
Conjured then by pact or patron, blackest crow of unknown matron,
perched upon a bust of Siamorphe as if it wished a ride.
Speaking as though all was normal, tone and tenor oddly formal,
“Puck does bid you ‘Greetings, mortal.’” Birdly mirth it did not hide.
“Magic words and more you’ll need to take you blinking from their side –
Ask and find yourself supplied.”
A choice to make with just one chance: petition crow or forest dance –
But mood so grim and sullen then, no naked waltz could he confide.
“Manic raven of Summer’s Court, I beseech our master’s cheeky sport.
Grant me, please, a charm or retort to flee my hopeless siblings’ hides.
Ancient faerie invocation, fly me merry from their lives.”
Quoth the raven, “He provides.”
Though he did not understand it, plea was heard, a favor granted.
Seelie magic changed within him: fickle lovers for a fickle bride.
Eldritch fingers turned to feathers, easing from all earthly tethers,
wings unbound to soar all weather, amongst the clouds could he now glide.
A swarm of crows for all to see, flitting, flying, o’er the skies.
Through their eyes, the Gate, he spied.
A landing ‘pon the Vale Estate turned the serving staff irate.
‘Twas not ‘til spell was ended that they saw their lord and sighed.
“Consider, Lord Vale, a druid, whose form and shape are also fluid –
whose messes might be - no, you did - singular in wealth and size.”
Of this he could not dare deny, his leal stewards’ gentle chide.
And so he kept his peace complied.
Broken free from sibling vices, now he’s left his own devices.
Sudden question surges, to his forefront mind reside.
Generous might his patron be but price for boon he’d yet to see.
“What chaos will he ask of me that might never be denied?
Pray it's not my own undoing, all my ego, all my pride –
Folly I must now abide.”
