From the Sea

Chapters

From the Sea, part one: The Beginning of Heroes
From the Sea, part two: The Summit of All Fears
Part Three: Golden
Part Four: Stammer

From the Sea, part one: The Beginning of Heroes

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

Ah hearken to me, young ones, open your ears
As I tell you the truth of the times in the old
When winter's wild windblasts would whistle their venom
And even in suntime, stone hearts would grow cold

So let your mind out of its cage as you wonder
Upon the great stories of ages ago
Gaze into the fire and feel fiercely the feelings
Of ponies whose souls had been hidden below

Once did a land bear the weight of proud ponies
Who strove to be greatest and richest of all
But like unto every great nation divided
These ponies and their wealth were destined to fall

For it was a grangling time, ponies were cunning
And trust was unknown, and the clans fell to fray
And greedy for gold, the guilds grew into armies
And even the dragons were kinder than they

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

The ponies of earth girded them up for battle
Each one armed aready, the archers with arrows
The pikeline with points which would pierce through the ponies
Whom they'd deemed their bane, with a hate to the narrows

Great oaks fell that day for the fortress of lumber
They built up around them, preparing to slay
Any foolish invader would fall for his folly
And warlike intentions ne'er fell by the way

With grim gob and gizzard, they gat them to gore-talk
And many a threat from the threshold was heard
And many a pony would die on the morrow
And wonder, but willing, would wish every word

And saddled, with standard, stood side to side sorely
Awaiting the dawn that would show them their foe
But never did question their motive, nor reason
That blind rage and Chaos had them in its throe

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

Now think on the sky, where the winged ones assembled
With chariots ready and fire in their eyes
With boldness and bloodlust, control-thirsty warriors
With lightning at hoof waiting for Sun to rise

So fierce were their faces, the visage of ponies
Who sought only blindly for gold and the reign
That coils of the Serpent at Bitgard seemed mild
Contrasted with legions of ponies insane

They buckled their belts and they bit on their bridles
And restlessly champed as the he-beaver's jaws
And they sharped their wing-spikes and they waxed their war-saddles
They polished their helms and they fastened their claws

For pegasus ponies have proven their prideful
And arrogant nature as cruel as an asp
So watched they and waited, without realizing
Their pride fueled the power that had them in grasp

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

But as oft' is the case, magick madly empowers
The ones whom it wields, (though they think that they wield)
And lights up the eyes with the bloodlust of demons
And simpering soul-deep, soon serves as a shield

A shield from emotion, a buckler, lest heartfelt
And true and sincere love should ever take hold
Aye, the fae-gift keeps many from true peace and union
And thus long ago grew the unicorns cold

Aye, the unicorns, shrouded in mist, moon, and magick
Were deaf to the crying of Charity's call
And they sharpened their horns and they readied their mana
For, wise though they seemed, they were proudest of all

And as the groups gathered, in ghastly dominion
Of right next to nothing, but reeling, reviled,
The dark Lord of Chaos looked out from his ring-room
And watched them assemble, and waited, and smiled.

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

At a time when all ponykind seeks only vengeance,
And sweet, soothing Sanity slips still away
A hero oft rises, though seldom heroic
And dearly, e'en dithering, may diffuse the fray

For such was the way of one Silver the Lanky
A pegasus pony whose wings were not full
Whose heart, never hollow, was wider than wingspread
And ready and waiting the hate to anull

He hale from his home in the cold clouds above him
And sought with his heart to bring peace to the guilds
And thought he would wander, and wished to word wisely
Convincing the clans of the rancor that builds

For strong was his blood-thrust, and firm was his fervent
And deep-rooted passion for peace on the earth
So Fortune was with him, though never he knew it
For Wyrd wisely wills, though not all know its worth

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang, and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

So sauntered he on, through the mists and the billows
And bravely sojourned through the lands of his foes
And would have brought calm to the lands of all living
But malice, ne'er dormant, stands firm as it grows

For the clans had grown tired of tending their treaties
Convinced in conviction they'd not give an ell
Every stranger reviled, every other race banished
And Chaos spread rampant as fires from Hell

Aye, fires from Hades, that mead-hall Gehenna
Where demons and ghouls all assembled that day
This, the downfall of goodness, struck them with deep longing
So aided they Chaos with strength on the way

And thus Silver found not an ear that would heed him
And every tribe cast him from out of their land
And thus Silver found his heart weakened, discouraged
At last, all alone, he would seek strength to stand

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

Author's Note

After a long, long wait, I am pleased to give you this, the first installment of this saga. Let your mind run free, and at night you will see the heroes before your eyes, struggling, shouting, laughing, or heartbroken. Let your heart rise and fall with theirs, let destinies intertwine, and let this song of epic adventure be to you not merely a fairy tale, but a guide of sorts as you make your own way through this darkened world of ours.

Or, more likely, you may simply let me know it sucks in the comments.

--'Freest out!

From the Sea, part two: The Summit of All Fears

As no one would heed him, and no hearth had holp him
So Silver was sent to go solely, and spurned
So fled he from out of the clans who had shunned him
Yet willed and avowed one day soon to've returned

Now heedless of obstacle, path, or direction
The youth yielded nothing, and hardly did halt
And never looked back, lest like Trot's wife of legend
He too should be shaped to a standard of salt

So galloped he on through the fields and the marshlands
And only in front did his gaze ever fall
And beggared his breath grew, and fewer his footsteps
Unaided by wing, through his strength plew a pall

At long last he came to the roots of a mountain
A remnant of giants, a shard of a throne
A kingdom of age past, a long-ruined splendor
The future that Silver had come to disown

When they came over the sea
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang, and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

For hours gazed he at the tower, which treeless
Had served as a sentry, surrounded to stand
And standing surrounded, had stayed still superior
In all ways majestic, above all the land

The mead-hall of giants, the conquest of heroes
Which through ages long past had stood at its base
The ring-room of elk and the playroom of eagles
Who soared round its heights with superlative grace

The bane of the ruthless invaders from outlands
It stood as a sentinel, barring the way
But unto those willing and strong and courageous
The monument toppled as it were of clay

For it was a magic time, when both immortals
And mortal magicians held runes carved by Wyrd
And often as not, held the runes unto leylines
Though not 'til the warlock was lengthy of beard

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang, and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

So as the colt stood by the sundering stonework
Awaiting the dawn which would bathe it in light
His soul, steeped in sorrow, soon sensed his surroundings
And Strength, all-pervading, filled Silver for flight

Aye, filled him with courage (though he was not lacking)
And heartened him hardily, set him for ought
It stripped him of sorrow, and quickened him quivering
No nervousness this, but a powerful drought

Which acted as ale, though it veiled not his vision
Not blindly to battle, but bravely, and bold
He clear coursed with confidence, caring, and careful
Ran reckless no more, though he faced the untold

And thusly imbued with the blessing of Fortune
He strode forth with sureness and faith in his quest
Empowered with energy, never ambition
For his selfish gain, he stood pure of the rest

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang, and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

So set he his mouncher, and folded his fliers
And straightway set out on his long journey up
His blood coursing now like magnificent magma
No food he required, nor soup needed sup

So never he harked to the hell-hail and howling
And whistling winds but as whispers did sound
His eyes fast' he forward, and fairly was flying
No freezing, no frailty he felt on the ground

Steep upward he soared; though on hoof, he was gliding
So safe was his soul and so healthy his heart
While fire of phoenix full flared from his lamp-lights
He smiled and ascended, and straight as a dart

And straight as a dart was he lifted by Whoadin,
Who graced him with wisdom and strength to rebuild
They say that the gods help those ponies with passion
So Silver was holp on his quest for a Guild

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang, and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

But this is a story (and natheless a true one)
And stories read best when the scroll is unfurled
So hie we from Silver, and make the map smaller
And fly o'er the land as with wings o'er the world

So passing through prairies and running through rivers
And trotting a bit through the marsh and the fields
At last we arrive at our story's beginning
The place—not the time—and see what it yields

So firstly we visit the unicorns' commons
Where they were constructing ballista and sword
For tall trebuchet they felled yew in the sapling
And vines and e'en fishgut they strung into cord

So all was in shambles, though strongly constructed
And Dvalin's Delight then in shame failed to shine
And almost all ponies forgot their old nature
And all of old Nature began to repine

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang, and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

But even in times when the world seems to crumble
And reason by fickle Dame Fortune is tossed
She never annihilates Order's firm foothold
And Harmony's cause is but veiled, never lost

For there was one unicorn, sprightly and cunning
Whose horn only served her to act as a lamp
A filly was she, and her magic uncrafted
But never for ought grew her young spirit damp

They called her Young Aurum, the daughter of Scefing,
Who ruled all the unicorns westly of Gryph
Who had now assembled and readied their mana
And waited and stood at the base of a cliff

For she was not like them, Young Aurum of Scefing,
And never she warred when the bloodmoon was full
She set out for peace, and for Harmony's Order
And ready and waiting the hate to annul.

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang, and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

Author's Note

Hey guys, it's him again! That dreadful ruffian, ForeverFreest! Let us hang him from the highest tree in Nottingham!

And honestly, I would deserve it. I'm really sorry for taking so long with this chapter; I didn't expect my new house not to have internet until now. No such worries in the future, I hope!

Long questions? Long comments? Want me to write lyrics for something? Got a secret crush on me?

Email me at foreverfreestbrony@gmail.com .

Love you guys!

--ForeverFreest

Part Three: Golden

Young Aurum of Scefing, princess of the horned ones
Though never she claimed it, nor strutted above
But humbly she walked through the realm she was heir to
And truly and tenderly filled it with love

So great was her heart and so deep her compassion
It ailed her to see all the clans gird for war
Unwilling to watch as the warriors assembled
She waited and wept and she prayed unto T'or

For strength she required, and strength he would grant her
But never in ways she had grown in her ken
The gods, as they say, grant good help to the helpless
Though riddles they work, as is now, it was then

So e'en though he heard her, and heartily holp her
She fain would have missed it, and thought him remote
If not for the swamp, where she heard and remembered
Recalling and grasping, and staying afloat

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang, and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

But now we locate ourselves far from the present
And tarrying long for the grip of the sane
So tearing ourselves from the mist of the future
We lastly arrive at the present again

And rightly we find ourselves just at the moment
Of close conference between daughter and sire
For Scefing would not heed young Aurum's petitions
And sent her out from him with countenance dire

And e'en as she pivoted once more to beg him
Entreating that he reconsider her plea
His stony-set silence spoke all that was in him
His soul sealing solid, he sat stolidly

And sadly she turned from his presence and cowled
Her face, lest the tears she shed should her betray
And tiredly trotted past trestles and towers
And gave up for lost all the blessed of the fae

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang, and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

So sorrowful sauntered she, strolling in silence
And silently screaming for faith to be kept
At last she had journeyed straight up to the drawbridge
And leaning against it, she knelt down and wept

And as the first teardrop slid down from its scabbard
And as it arrived at its home on Oor's bride
The crystal she shed was wrought eerily sculpted
A rainbow, a vision it 'parted, and died

But 'fore they had passed or she reckoned to dreaming
The things she had seen of her future and mine
She lit in her spirit, her heart, and her Ahn'm
The ghost of a flame of a mem'ry to shine

And ghastly and ghoulish the ghost grew gigantic--
At least, in the way of a thought in her mind
A reason rare resolute, rising but restful
Convinced her to lose all, that all she might find

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang, and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

So then she wrought steady her hammering heartbeat
And deeply inhaling, prepared for the task
Set her by immortals, who reckoned her suited
Still, strong, and steadfast, and full as a flask

Of love and devotion to every last creature
Who sentient e'er made his home on the earth
So ponies were fae-filled and flyers and farmers
All gifts and all-blessed of the gods, they had worth

Not valued by reason or pondering equation
Of services due to the army or state
Not valued at vision or cursory uptake
A glance by one lacking in wisdom and Fate

Not merely constituents, parts of a wholeness
Though wholly they stood and divided they paled
But fashioned by gods, they themselves bore their likeness
And thus all the glory of godness unveiled

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang, and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

But part from philosophy, lovers of wisdom
And watch for a moment as tendrils unfold
As fools in their folly would fain forge a fact'ry
Of hatred and heartlessness, trouble untold

But not for the sight of such wrong do we tarry
And so we must light on some new place to scry
And so we like eagles shall glide o'er the landscape
And listen and learn as we watch and we fly

So hark to the vict'ry of Verity's vessel
Young Aurum of Scefing who packed up her stores
Not overly laden, but set for the journey
A quest for the kindness which virtue restores

She lit to her chambers and there sat composing
A missive of madness and mercy in one
Farewells it contained for her father and family
So quilled she and sealed it at Sleep of the Sun

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang, and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

So on the next night as the mists from the marshlands
Rolled over the land in their pale, ghindly way
A solitary pony stood shrouded in moonlight
Which gorgeously garnered itself up in grey

The guards on the ramparts, though cautious of ponies
Of wings or of soil and not of their race
And kept a sharp eye on the ground they were holding
Did not see a unicorn steal from the place

And thusly Young Aurum made good her evasion
And ran from her home with no qualms in her heart
She knew that the end is quite often beginning
A newer and brighter and wonderful start

So never she worried, nor thought of returning
'Til that blessed day she'd arrive to work peace
She trusted the gods, but as Gideop of olden
She'd set them a trial, and this was their fleece

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang, and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

Author's Note

Whoa. Well, that's done. Finally. I feel so, so, so , so bad...

I'm sorry. But--

Love you guys!

--ForeverFreest

Part Four: Stammer

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

Now e'en as the even grew early and heavy,
And e'en as the war wound its way to the start,
As ponies prepared, prejudiced and unyielding,
Still some found the time for creation and art.

Small Stammer the sireless it was, of the earth-kind,
Whose voice was a vase of the clearest perfume
And floated like faerie-kind, flutelike and fragrant
Through mudpony camps as they doubled their doom.

And every ear in the area heard it,
And wondered a while as the wind bore it by,
For Stammer they saw to be sickly and speechless,
So frail and so terribly timid to try.

For Wyrd is a wise one, though well an enigma,
And Muses attend those the gods have wrought weak;
So sense has a portion, though poorly afforded,
And Stammer sang sweetly, though scarce could he speak.

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

So never asked Stammer of tribe or of family
To cease or to stop all their symbols of war,
But went--simply went; from the world he would wander
And seek a solution to settle the score.

So calmly he cantered, and chased his reflection
Through rivers and willows and woods for a while,
And made up his mind he would meddle to mend,
For the battle to him tasted bitter as bile.

The weakest the wind lends its breath the more mellow,
And so bitter breezes declined to assail
His frame, fair and frangible, so it might stand
Against all the world, and prepare to prevail.

Little he knew it, but Stammer was god-blessed;
The ichor of alicorns stirred in his veins,
And though it was hidden and harbored in thrall-ring,
A time such as this would soon sever the reins.

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

And as he was travelling, whence, he'd no vision
So far on the road to a pasture unknown,
He came to a pike in the street set before him,
With signs long obscured by the vines overgrown.

As he could not reckon the trail or direction,
And as he had need of a right way to go,
He sat and he pondered a minute, enraptured
And first did not notice a heavenly glow.

Till all of a moment, with a feint and a flutter,
There floated unto him a faerie of sorts,
Which lighted before him with dainty decorum
And impishly prim, interrupted his thoughts.

"Young Stammer!" it shouted with silvery lightness,
"From whence have you journeyed, and where are you bound?
Seek you help?--it is waiting, and I am its conduit,
Thus I have flown to your sky and your ground."

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

Mere moments had moved since the faerie had spoken,
Yet unto the lad it had felt like a year;
He sorted himself as he stood and searched 'round him
And narrowed his eyes as he tilted his ear.

"Who hails me?" he shouted, or would have, had never
His voice been as shy as the wind o'er the reeds;
He stamped both his hooves on the damp road beneath him,
Aware that his gifts were not suited for screeds.

A cry tore asunder the calm and his footing,
And fumbling, he fell on his fetlocks and tail,
And noticed a creature indignant before him,
Which nearly he'd stamped with his hoof on the trail.

He paled and he quivered, so fond of the fauna
That lurked in the woods of his earthpony home,
But saw that this thing was no typical beastie,
But fashioned like him in a butterfly's comb.

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

The thing whirled its wings with a whistle and whinny,
Which sounded as free as the frost and the Deep,
And shook his red mane as he gathered his haunches,
And sprang on a stump with a bound and a leap.

"Your tongue is a twist," it began, ever-blinking,
And thus you imagine yourself some the less--
You must not be blinded; for ever the gods
Did impair, or confound those they'd chosen to bless.

"Your gangly arrangement, and lolloping conduct
Are void and a frail, vapid vessel--your voice
They conceal from your own ears, and more than your senses
Your churlish bone-case veils your mind from a choice.

A choice you must ponder, O Stammer the Sireless,
A choice that may yet set the tremors to right--
But the scales of high Haysgard are thirsting for balance--
So you must be brazen, forsaking your fright."

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

The sprite stood and shimmered, and nodded its brain-box,
And dumbly young Stammer stood waving his hoof,
And watched as it vanished, an eerie illusion,
And felt as his mind were a mile aloof.

When minutes and seconds had come and departed,
And all that remained was the silence around,
Young Stammer stood treading the ground in a crescent
And seemed to be wearing a groove in the ground.

But vacancy did not abide in his hood then;
The pool of his mind was fair cloudy, but stirred.
He thought on the cryptic and dimly-lit message,
Enigmas of choices, and what he preferred.

Although he'd no boldness, he shouldered his burden,
And sternly he settled his snout to the east,
And soon began singing, the swifter his canter,
And something hid down in his soul was released.

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

Author's Note

Wow.

Can you believe this is still a thing?

I thought about posting blogs while I was writing this chapter, giving updates, promising to be faster in the future, maybe giving samples of what I was working on...but then I realized that when the authors I follow do stuff like that, it kinda ticks me off. So here's part four, unheralded by a plethora of previous blog posts and likely to go unobserved by the vast majority of readers on the site. And that's fine.

Honestly, the main reason I pushed myself so hard to complete this chapter is to show that I haven't given up on it, or left you in the lurch. I know it's been a ridiculously long time since I posted an update, but would you believe me if I told you I'd been working on this by bits the whole time? Truth be told, it's a lot harder to write this now than it was when I started. I don't have that same frenzied zeal I did in the beginning, and that's only to be expected from someone with as short an attention span as I have who's involved in as many projects as I am. Poetry is a very demanding art form--as you can see, I have no problem writing footnotes, blog posts, and silly little ditties on the spot, but when it comes to creating characters in a story centered around a world built upon a style of poetry which requires careful word selection, alliteration, rhythm, pacing, classical emulation and dramatic tone, not to mention the sheer number of words in the thing--it's quite frankly exhausting.

So what, then? Am I resigning as a poet? Am I cancelling this story or putting it on hiatus? By no means. But from now on, I'm not going to make promises about deadlines I can't keep. I'm trying to bear in mind that most classical epics were formed over centuries, not the last couple years of high school. So it's best for me to just...chill. I'll be working on this as the mood strikes me, and I'll be working on a lot of other stuff too. I may write another story, or I may not. I really have no idea. For now, I'm just going to accept that I'm hardly the greatest poetic mind of the 21st century and that I'm definitely not the most driven poet of any century. And that's okay. So here, have an update. It's good to see you all again.

I love you guys!

--ForeverFreest