100,000 days and nights yonder

During the days of our ancestors

And the days of the meek and the strong

Of the Kings of legend and the names whispered in terror

When roaming trees of watermelon and diamonds

Were but the hapless dreams

Of the famished and insane

Where legends broke their names

Onto the stone of history

And forever secured their way

Onto the tongues of Bards

Who forever chant their victories

And their tragedies alike.

It all began a far ways away

In the North, the land of cold air

Of harsh winter, dark nights

But better days on the horizon

Deep within it's nexus

Lay the city of metal and kings

And within the city went a man

By the name of Arculucs, the son of Ari

Who himself was the son of Arculucus.

Arculucs, o' Arculucs, he was certainly a handful

But he was never a bore

And most certainly never one to reject a challenge

Regardless of how bold or insane

It may be, he was willing to deliver

And that made him the enemy of many

But Arculucs cared not for who he crossed

For he was the boastful type at 28

And always enjoyed a rout of the opposition

To the point where it was common sight

To see him dancing, adorned in his swept armor

Of fine steel painted as though it were gold,

Through the streets of the city of metal

With a scythe of a sword

Boasting of his harvest to his detractors

But t'was not the way of the world today

For today, Arculucs ran, not out of a challenge

But in a desperate bid to save himself

From his own shortcomings.

Arculucs, being the fool he was,

Bet against a prince

And this was no ordinary challenge

For the prince was an equal to him

In his inclination to Chaos

But he wasn't an equal to Arculucs' swordsmanship

And now Arculucs scrambles through the City of Metal

With a prince's blood lining his hands

And the wrath of the King pursing his shadow.

To escape, his only desire

To be free, the calling of his heart

And thankfully for his heart, Arculucs had many friends

Friends bound by obligation, but friends nonetheless

And perhaps with the dozen favors he called

He could escape the city,

Even if in disgrace and exile

As the wayward son of the North

But as all fall in on him

He came to see that he could still relay on others

Even if it was short of the dozen he levied.

There is a reason no storyteller dare speak

Of Arculucs in the North

For the greatest shame of the King's name

Is found in that name

For Arculucs gambled high

And managed to cheat not only the King

But death and his fate in the afterlife

As he slipped from the City of Metal

In a wind-swept ship

It's mast, tarred clouds

That bleed into the crash of ships

That lined the bay

And with a majestic 9

Did Arculucs slip from the hand of destiny

And who could forget those 9?

Those who share in his glory.

At the helm, Hilmar the Navigator

Ripe with age, armed with a barbed tongue

That launched venomous lashes toward all

But who still owed a debt to Arculucs,

Then there was Birgir the Lesser

Who merely could not match his grandfather's legend

But who shared many a drink with Arculucs

And whose promises were as good as contracts written in blood,

Then there was Junia the Gentle

An ill-fitting name for a woman of her type

For she was truly the daughter of Hilmar

And was bound to Arculucs through her blood,

Then there was Teman the Poet

A master of words, but an equal master in tradecraft

Who could weave people like he weaved words

He was already hunted by the King, Arculucs gave him an escape,

Then Erlendur the Stranger

Oh, was he a strange one

A man from exotic lands, with intense talents

Who owed Arculucs his very life,

Then Mikhailu the Foolish

Not the wisest of man

But certainly the strongest

And to Arculucs' blade of mind, he was the sword of strength,

Then there was Gunna the One-eyed

A beauty of a maimed woman

Who can blame her wounds to her adventures

And fell into Arculucs' camp as a result,

Then there was Gunnarr the Brave

A hero no doubt, his service painted by scars

But a hero who fell into disrupt

And was forced into the same place as Arculucs,

Lastly, there was Fredrik the Fervent

The other son of Ari

A holy man, unlike his brother, but one who still had a shadow

And a name that bound him to Arculucs.

And thus went all the exiles

Fleeing the city of Metal

In their wind-swept ship

10 to march sea to land

And 10 to seek life

Beyond the death of yonder

For the seas that cut the World

Into parts and sections

Were wild and monstrous

Hostile to all interlopers

But still rideable

Through a bribe of black gold

That Hilmar brought on his ship

And 3 fortnights would come and go

As the Sun rose and fell as it always did

And the Wayward sons ventured

Towards lands that were foreign to them.

But as quick as 6 weeks came

They came to pass, fading into memories

Of the blue sea and her waves

And the gallant ship

Pushing against the world

As Arculucs and his bunch

Found themselves strangers

In a land strange to them

For the stickiness of the air,

The force of the Sun

And the astir greens

Mixed with strokes of purple and yellow

All created a nausea

That hung in the stomach

And yearned for the days when they weren't exiles

Back where the air is thin

The sun is weak

And the catatonic greys

Mixed with streaks of white

Created a sense of home

But no more is their home

For another belong to them

But not them alone

For the legend had just begun.