Gusts Of Gusto Are Balmy In The Eye’s Breeze

It won’t be long now, Oric, before we are sharing cigarillos over the back of the Bismarck once again. I long to see the mountains and vistas and primordial forests of the Northern Hinterlands. Avramstown, the crown of the Wolfen Empire — the seat of the King Avramson — sits high atop majestic peaks, surrounded by cliffs, and cradles the blessed pyramid like a diamond on the lobe of the Night’s lineament.

I, Tyvernos Oriflamme, diminutive of stature and bubbly by nature sit here before a pessimistically half-full inkwell. Weary, with the weight of an ageless digit dangling prodigiously, I press nib to parchment and press onward impression-ably. My time with CrIsis has weathered my heart beyond its eyes and my soul beyond its years ears — maturing as a bacchanal’s seductive syrup and wavering listlessly before my vine-ripened sojourn. The mundivagant vagrant theologian respectfully bows out for surcease. I am exhausted; truly the Gods’ work weighs heavily upon my slight frame like an anvil on the mantle of my wind-blown hearth. Fatigue spends like a spent spendthrift with niggardly notions and a penchant for the parsimonious. Penny-wise wisdom cashed-out of the Kaash-cow, cowed and kowtowed, worn and washed-out until he is torn and tuckered-out.

Without ceremony, pomp, or frippery I take my leave, take to the skies, and leave my take to the wind’s sighs. But first…a drink. Ooh…bubbles! Some supplies are irreplaceable — even by a Trigger-happy steak-skinning trigger-finger. I have chosen a pauper’s life and embrace humble piety with serendipity and wanderlust. Bennu, herself, has blessed me with the gusts and graces of temperance, tolerance, and temerity. Taiga, my oasis, leaves the lasting lips of forgiveness upon my furrowed brow.


Draught of laughter – draughter quaffed evermore and slaked ever after,
Tis but a tipple of the nipple as you suckle and sipple that’ll wet your whistle’s carafe-ter.
Crashter! Nurse faster! I need to feed, breathe and breed the sustenance I’m after.

Drink with me I pray thee. Break wine and break bread. Drink time or drink dead,
‘Tis your zeal, you heel, and your prurient appeal as you kneel and give your head.
More…less…life’s last caress is my love’s borne breast. Drink mine or drink bed.

Uncorked. Uncapped. Unhooked and untapped…the bottles beckon…
‘Tis a siren’s call I reckon…the brew, the stew, enticement and I’m taken…
I’m shaken when I awaken to find my token is broken and I’m naked.

The elixir has me now, I know not how but I scrape and bow my brow to the ground,
‘Tis a powerful potion instills the lustful notion for the Queen of my heart crowned.
Croak! I rasp. Help me fast! The gorgon’s grasp has turned my throat around.

Alas! I revel. I sigh and dishevel and even the level…woe betide the devil!
Alas! I carouse. I lie about the house. I lay like a louse and see no evil,
In my actions…my satisfactions…but desultory reactions hear no evil.

Charlatan! A harlot hen! I swear it hot! I know it now! She loves me not!
Besotted by the vixen, buxom, donned her, and blitzed in. Her love is rot!
Befuddled by the drink. Love’s long-lasting, linger, lust for brains, stupefied and besot!

The drink I drunk to think I thank, drank, and thunk it. I sunk it. I glare and debunk it
With flare I dare to flunk it. My panache awash, my verve’s aswerve, my elan’s gone.
Empty is the bottle. Drained be my heart. Wracked and ruined and raring to start…

Oric, I summoned an Air Elemental Like…a real one. Ooh…. And it cut a swath through the jungle as wide as a caravel for a hundreds of miles — at my behest. The forces at my fingertips leave monochromatic stains upon my heart, even as the blood dribbles from my lips. Oooh…bubbles!



Written by Tyvernos on the 22nd of Ra in the 69th Year of the Wolfen Empire.
St Bernard picture from Chelsea Stebar.

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