The Tainted Thegn, Fulgid Glim

The Tainted Thegn is come again, he sweeps South to the fulgent lands.

All his reign is knavery; a tide of blood is in his hands.

In all the years we've not seen one who shined as bright as him

when stood at the gates while Helmrood burned...

...and sang, did Fulgid Glim.

Ditherprank & Gorespindle

Gorespindle

A sharp wind riding through the dell,

Horse's mane enmeshed with bells,

Whose deepest heart's a greedy hell,

That bitter villain Gorespindle

Ditherprank and the Faithful Mute

"I'm Ditherprank and I've endentured this mute--

with promises of an enchanted flute--

"To carry around my imprisoning skull,

which, when bound to the earth, can be ever so dull"

Thjornig Marrow

When Thjornig Redmane touched his axe

A vision passed before his eyes.

He saw not how, nor when, nor why,

But he knew that he would die

Drowned in a black fen, left to lie

Until the worms crawled out his eyes...

When Thjornig Marrow rides to war,

There comes a sorrow to his eyes

to see his foes, to list' their cries,

For they know not that they will die

where in the mud they're left ot lie.

...Oh how they wish they wouldn't die.

Ullidge Brood

Their throats will crack, the crows will feast

in paean to our kindly beast.

We'll make them crawl, we'll make them sing

and praise the many-eyed, mumbling thing.

I hold it now, like Krell before.

I hold this flag till I am sore.

The staff is rough, it's splinters sting.

I hate the many-eyed mumbling thing.

Greer

Hiding in the dank and mold

or perched up in the mountain's fold...

I'll find those creatures folk call great

and gladly cut them down a bit. 

Ogres, Pit-toads, Bears, and Wurms,

Sung in songs that make me squirm...

I'll stalk those legends that men fear

and make them curse the name of Greer... 

Brinnae the Goad

Brinnae the Goad once looked at a toad

And asked "What did god purpose for this?"

She spat on the toad and then onward she rode

Without ever more giving a piss.

That rogueish goad, Brin, once drank wine from a skin

And said 'how brightly this shines in my head!'

She tasted again, watched the sky start to spin,

and drank 'till her poor brain was dead.

Toller Brigg

Toller Brigg, that righteous pig,

whose brain is grey and fallow...

he rides alone past brake and stone,

through darkling glade and hollow....

Though leagues apart, he hears your heart

and every time you swallow;

Though he be dense, bereft of sense,

That Toller Brigg will follow...

The Gribbly Wight

                                            You shall know of my disdain,
                                            The scorn of the unrighteous-slain,
                                            When under the White Finger'd moon we shall rise.
                                            How I yearn for that beautiful time...
                                            Hungry and lurking and foul with grime...

                                            Buried 'neath the wretched scree
                                            Of a filthy, barren barrow-lea.
                                            Only worms on which to dine,
                                            So let me nibble your sanity...
                                            Yes, let me pick upon your mind.

                                            Embalmed with mud. Reposed on slates.
                                            Left below the silt to wait
                                            For the white-finger'd man to call on us;
                                            To be numbered among his levy of hate;
                                            To accept his gift of hateful dust...

Brittleghast the Cut-Pate

                                                 Beware the cut-pate's jovial axe.
                                                 It furrows brows with hilarious tracks,
                                                 vexes crowns with giggling seams,
                                                 lights Brittleghast's eyes with a mawkish gleam.

                                                 While stricken, bleeding onlookers drool,
                                                 he juggles his axe like a glorious fool
                                                 And - rather than ruin this act with a grin - 
                                                 lets the arc of his axe tell the story for him.

                                                 Sweating with mirth and convulsed with delight,
                                                 To watch Brittleghast work is a wonderful fright.
                                                 He shows us the thrill of such exquisite dread;
                                                 He shows us the joke in a well-cloven head;

                                                 Shows us how masters work only in red
                                                 Long after more reasonable colors have fled;

                                                 Heaps jest upon jest with the sweep of his axe.
                                                 ... Oh God help us, he's at it again.