Prologue: Blood Princess Begins
or
[http://i.imgur.com/kV7mEfD.jpg]
“The Lied of the Bloodied Rose”
Whilst I cruise the witching hour, them I peruse, sore, and sour—
Them scores of books crimson and dour, filled with blood-penned forgotten lore—
Inside I squirm, still adapting to this role I’m forced enacting.
Outside the skies swarm with lighting playing tag on heaven’s floor.
“You havin’ fun?” I glare skywards, “playing tag on heaven’s floor?—
Leaving me, cursed rose indoor.”
Here, one more page of this diary; one scene more of a tale dreary;
With each word reading more teary, bloody, till hope lives no more.
Screams laid out by insane raving; dreams twisted by sanguine craving;
All sculpted by tears’ engraving, pouring from a wretched core—
From the fated prim rose princess, pouring out her wretched core—
Cursed with thirst, for evermore.
Yet firstly this knew no lornness, but the laughing chime of gladness
Of a child, what more a princess—beauty like none saw before.
Eyes of shining blue sapphire; mane dancing like ebon fire;
None had seen prettier flower since the godly days of yore.
She was Erwyn’s blithest blossom in those blissful days of yore—
And seen since then—nevermore.
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Once again I pause my reading, dreading where each page is leading.
Misleading glee to cruel ending—baffling me the more I pore
Over tomes now mine to keeping, legacy of a rose now sleeping,
Whose crazed, bloodied, dement dreaming hides the truth I’m looking for.
Within that wretched, writhed writing hides the cure I’m looking for—
To let me be me once more.
In the tale, the child grew pretty, famed in charm but also witty
Not too tall—a titbit bitty—but a soul that made up for
In grand kindness that short-ish built. Not just a face but also skilled,
The princess had her parents thrilled. She was more they could ask for—
A rose in bloom—smart, kind, pretty—more perfect they dared ask for.
But none knew what thorns she bore.
Entered here, the second actor, of this lied many a factor,
With, in hand, a single aster, walking to her chamber door.
A knock—and appeared the lady—and a bow to the belle made he;
And the bloom he offered and said he, “Your likeness made my heart soar.”
He was her knight, body and soul, man whose love made her heart soar—
Till the day that heart he tore.
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And the sudden song of racy lighting through my curtains lacy
Shake me—wake me from this spacey daydream I’d slipped in before;
So that now echoes, once again, in my head, this most painful strain—
Weeps of a spectre gone insane, of a batty rose of yore.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Like many men hitherto, host to a batty soul of yore—
Host and cursed, for evermore.
Out into the tempest peering, I let bolts my corneas searing,
Clearing my mind and too sneering at the first whom this curse bore—
That same knight who’d been so taken by a love none saw mistake in.
Too deep! When his miss was taken, madness in turn took his core.
Once loving knight, then avenger whose madness consumed his core—
Toy of Fate, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, the rose’s soul within me churning,
Both of us agreed on spurning this man she once loved before—
This noble, skilled, dumb Adonis whose bêtise brought this on us,
And whose remorse brings no solace, to those souls he cursed before—
All of those, whom by his fault, suffered from this curse before.
“Mea culpa.” Say it once more!
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Had he been there that fateful night—as should have a faithful knight—
Had he received her painful bite, would I now sit here so sore?
But he wasn’t—with a reason. Monsters swarmed Erwyn that season.
It would have been act of treason to flee his role in the war.
As commander, he had no choice but to take part in the war.
“I’ll wait,” she said, “evermore.”
But on a dark moonless solstice, resurging from ancient lost myths,
With the princess as its hostess, a cursed blood awoke once more.
Her long black mane bleached to bone-white; her skin took the pallor of blight;
She grew fangs; ruby dyed her sight; and bloodthirst seeped in her core.
The rose withered and was reborn a predator changed to her core—
They had grown, those thorns she bore.
Then the monster, waking slowly—with its mind filled with thirst only—
Caught a maid, and that poor soul in the morn laid drained on the floor.
When her father learnt the horror, without falter he gave order—
To protect their crown and honour, the stained rose could live no more.
But the queen’s plea reached her husband, so their child was killed no more—
But locked up, for evermore.
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Here, outside, the night grow tenser, shaken by redundant thunder,
Like the returning knight’s footsteps pounding on the castle floor.
Facing both monarchs deep sweating, he clamoured his will to meeting
She whose hand he’d got in wedding—whom he’d left to go to war—
Over, and over, he asked for his beloved he’d left for war—
But quoth the king, “Nevermore.”
“My king!” said he, “You loving Queen! You both know best our bond so keen!
Why would her parents stand between us as I hereby implore?!”
Meanwhile, in her gilded prison, in a far-off keep high-risen,
Harping on her father’s treason, a bloodied rose fought her core—
As madness corroded her mind, she fought to keep her true core—
“I’ll wait,” she cried, “evermore.”
Years flew by, leaving her behind, an immortal queen—but confined,
With demons rapping at her mind, urging she wet her throat so sore.
This sweet taste, how could she forget?—this ichor which her sense beset—
This whisper seducing her soul, seeping thirst inside her core.
As she fought to keep her senses, this thirst swelled inside her core.
“Please come. I can wait no more…”
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This story I sit here reading, this sad tale she spent years writing—
A diary to help her fighting—I can’t stand it anymore!
I know the ending—I’ve read it! A happy ending? Forget it!
Read upon read, I don’t get it. More questions fill me galore!
Who, where, I know. But when? How? WHY?? Those questions fill me galore.
I’m confused, and NOTHING MORE!!
.
.
.
Let’s skip ahead a little bit, before I fully lose my sh…
Her knight did come—like she hoped it—though he took ten years before.
He was held up, jailed actually—bad plan to threaten royalty—
Maybe showing some loyalty would have helped a little more?
But he’d chosen revolt instead—At least triumph, you meathead boar!
But he failed, and nothing more.
So after years of tortured wait, he showed up—though he showed up late!
But she cared not. She thought it great! And leaped forth to hug this boar.
But this is where the twist comes in! Ten years of search had worn him thin.
He was good for the loony bin! Her jump spooked his weakened core.
“…eh?” she uttered, shocked, and looked down…at the sword piercing her core.
Happy? …eh. Not anymore.
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“Curse you!” she shrieked—loud, disgusted, “Men! You fiends cannot be trusted!
I curse thee with all my hatred—thou shalt find peace nevermore!
Be the shards of my heart, broken by these lies thy soul hath spoken,
The stakes that my curse betoken—piercing always through thine core!
Curse this love within my heart, and curse this hope within my core!
I shall need them—nevermore!”
And her killer, barely breathing, barely thinking, vainly shaking,
Stepped back, and his bloodied weapon fell clattering on the floor;
And her eyes burnt with the loathing of a daemon in rose’ clothing,
And with fangs and sad laughing, she mixed their blood on the floor;
And that blood dripping down quietly like rose petals on the floor
Shall flow with life—nevermore.
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Well, well, this is all nice and good—but here my query, if you would…
THE HELL THIS HAS TO DO WITH ME??? Keep that f*cking curse of your…s!
All I wanted was a subclass! Not a transit from lad to lass!
You sent me through the looking glass! This is not what I asked for!
This was a trap—No! I am one! …Totes not what I asked for.
Stupid game…[some rhyme in –ore].
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