Alphabet

A man walked into the woods.

But he knew he would be followed.

Certainly, he must avoid the guard.
Dogs and knives were a common theme among the Sentries.
Especially to hunt men like him.
For days now, he had been running with them on his tail.
Gargantuan footprints lined the earth behind him; the footprints of the dogs the men brought with them.
Hellhound didn’t begin to describe the horror of these creatures – the Daerken.
Ice and death and agony followed wherever they treaded.
Jumping over a fallen tree, the man made his was quickly through the undergrowth.
“Kane!” a voice echoed near him.
Large chains webbed the trees around him.
Meldron had warned him about chains in the wood.
Not once had he expected to find anything of the sort, and now he regretted being so slow to listen to his friend.
Otherwise beautiful trees had been scarred by the chains as though they were frequently jostled and pulled.
Part of the man wanted to turn around and lend himself to the Sentries.
Quitting now would put everything he had accomplished to shame, however.
Rings of arcane figures dotted the chain-bound trees around him.
Silently, he crept through the web of iron and wood.
Then everything began to blur together.
Upon a tower of rock, a cloaked figure stood, his hands glowed in the fog.
Visibility was growing faint.
Whatever was happening here, the man’s own body was betraying him.
Xeron’s words came to his mind.
You must reach Valviera or all is for naught.
Zeylar assumed his ultimate form and took to the skies.

Cows

Cows,

They’re black and white,

Just like the night,

Except the white,

Though that’s not right,

Because at night,

And due to fright,

Many tend to turn on a light,

Adding some white,

To the black of the night,

So the bedbugs don’t bite,

While they’re snuggled up tight,

Until it gets bright,

By the end of the night,

When things are alright,

And no one will fight,

Well, some people might,

But they breathe easy in light,

Because in the night,

The shadows of fright,

Give way to their plight,

When a creature in flight,

Undoes their last rite,

And whom they can’t smite,

For the strength of his sleight,

That terrible wight,

Who glides like a kite,

On the winds of the night,

Until he’s out of sight,

And the crooks sit tight,

Until the first light,

For which they have no delight,

But are indeed contrite,

And often will spite,

The creature of night,

Of whom I write,

The Dark Knight.