Vinzalf

Author's Note: This is the first half of chapter 1 (thus the 1.1). Even this section is fairly lengthy, and I wanted to get something up for y'all to read. It does have sort of an abrupt ending but the rest of the chapter has more to it. Those beings that say men have no skill in the arts have never laid their eyes upon their capitol city of Golgotha. If my words are worth but a shekel let me attest that Golgotha is the most magnificent craft ever created by the hands of men. The city is a giant fortress: streets, homes, highways, and canals, all interwoven in a labyrinth, like the caves of goblins or the roots of the World Tree. Thick walls

The lifelessness of it all: Wanting to run before I crawl Wanting to rise above all the rest To break from my fledgling crest To catch the wind under my wing And fly through an innocent fling But the sky is rapidly turning gray I'm left with nothing to do or say I've seen the look in their eyes before Selfish self-pity mark their door Shut out, lost there forgotten evermore. Author's note: I had begun a second stanza but only had half of the first line. I'm not sure where I was going, but whatever. This might have been right after I broke up with my girlfriend, or maybe right before, while we were on a "break." Oh well, whatever.

I laughed at life when I won the lottery, and I found the perfect girl, then went cruising on the open sea. But I've been robbed since then, Been divorced times three, Then my ship hit an iceberg, And life was laughing right back at me.

My mind severed from reality in order to see the prophecy, The scene not of a dream: dark and cold, a dragon's den, And in the end, soon you will see, through the fire and cold, That life means more than having more than the next man; There's a script being sold: there's a battle for your soul. And the gravity of life is pulling me under to see the truth: Us all preoccupied with strife, a girl never to bear her youth, A disturbed man at the knife, about to take his life, soon you see: Life is more than watching the next man enter the portal of death, Not hiding under sand, but to open your eyes: see the truth. Under this dark pit a

No light could pierce the thick canopy of the forest which I made my way. The trail was long and beat from others who like I now, strutted in this poor play. The trees enshrouded my very self. I, guided by only my lantern, kept going, Dauntless against the cold sky and rain And the winds, which kept blowing and blowing. Other figures danced among the trees, They searched for a lantern of their own, But when they came upon a light, It blew out in a whistling moan. Guide, O Light, Lover of my soul, Keep my path straight and my mind as ease, For things stalk this hallowed ground with the stench of evil in an unholy breeze. Wherev

The sun gleamed down upon the troupe-trodden, boot-beaten, soul-sodden path that stretched south to the farthest reaches of the Kingdom of Man. The path served as highway for all sorts of beasts of all sorts of occupations: human lumber-cutters, elven explorers, dwarven coal miners; even great personages as the King on his war marches in the North or shamans on pilgrimages to their demon shrines.    Chances are you would see many a party traveling up and down the path, maybe even the King if you were lucky, but for the most part just merchants and traders who would often stop you on your journey and try to sell you some of their goods or gar