{56}

Night crawls solid as a single creature, spreading its morbid features,that mingle cold into the tingling might. 

Bold thunder rings bolt out, , , shout-howls of delicious spite-scowls, , , linger, , ,

Frightening!  Thor-born-storm-claws, rescind their way vicious,
then crescendo frayed calamitous,

echoed malicious. 

Brightening is the Witches wind;  sprightful harbinger
of the vengeful Wiccan Light,
lightening-white,

‘midst stricken rites of sordid sin.

Spite.

Din.

Anger seeps thru this darkness,
and its monstrous plight of ghostly manacles (quick running).

A rabid vulture of Being hangs
mist-like ‘round the rapid sprinting of small ankles (quick running). 

Thin white skin (legs with hardly calves)
flash between tatters of pale-blue cloth; on which
embroidered brown crosses flatter the deep wind.
Looking back in fright, wild eyes of green light up,
framed thin by wan skin, on this night nefarious. 
Red hair is knotted by the claws that reach out,
taunting in the wind with tautened limbs,

stumble-running;  tri. . .p. . . ping. 

Black mud glistens, cold on girl-thin wrists. 

Dim.

Up and on she moves with a whimper, drowned by the forceful chaos of the night;  its decrepit mood inspiring all that is beast.  Sheets of large drops hammer down, and the pale dress clings wet to her thighs.  Once lively hair is now dark and straggled behind eyes that bulge into the darkness;  and shine wet amongst the indigo.  Faint, the glisten of a clouded moon for comfort, glints, way above the bleak terrain, and sullen starkened skies.  Whince.  Pain.

On she tries, she cries, falls down and lies.  Near she dies;  on tries.  Lame.

Blood, thin in a rivulet down the shin of her knee, is washed to nothing by slippery streams of raining gleam.  Now ghastly cold is the night, and mocking is the winds feisty blow;  onward strain.  Withered drain.  Howl bellow.

Foothills at a Might of Mountain, and half a rocky shelter keeps out the skelter-rain until the storm-beast's belter slows, finally bows down;  then refrain. 

But freezing bold, the air hints at ice, and blue is the flavour, tight on skin, , , capering in the cold wind-whipping caprice.  Clambering o’er jagged rocks, like a skeleton.  Almost sexless but for hints of young breasts.  Strands, dark wet of red curl;  her embroidered halo pale pearl, with brown crucifixes, patterned threads, intricate in her gentle seam of dress.

The wind, once raging, over-raged now eases;  then trumpets its sound of contorting dance thru mounds of shredded leaves from wrinkled trees.  The taunting frost lessens its hold on the girl, then sings ice-auric, cold in call.  Gales swirl at thin legs, and all the time the wind's mad call sigh-mourns: 

Howls of night shrill out
with eerie whines,  through rows of branches,
whistling streaks of high-pitched pines.

Looms the Mountain.  Mouths of cavern;  yawning depths unknown.  Offering sanctuary from the saddened wind.  Aching limbs crawl over black rock;  and seeing its paltry gift in the gloom, gratefully into its earthen throat of jagged doom, she limps, then falls.

The tunnel straight, and stub-toe dark;  biting the blue thru her bottom lip;  and wincing as the pain crawls up bare feet;  whimpering as the howling winds of whirl retreat.  Lift up your rags, and sleep.  Sleep is a gift, on the floor of the cavern.  Ice is sharp on stinging-numb feet, as the shadows dart, then drift. . .

{57}

Lift open eyelids,
                        released now from sleep,
                                                            and aroused by a sound; 

fingers scrape on rocks, and
            she lifts her head wondering,
                        now throbbing from the ground;
                                    in her calves are tight knots,
                                                again she hears the sound.

Hand touches smooth,
                            where bony-thin fingers, lock
                                                                  around a cold piece of hope.

The dim light is gold, before focus takes hold.  She looks to her hand and finds a cool coin, hard-smelt and heavy.  Pain fades to enquiry, then she peeks at her treasure;  wandering how it came there and thinking: would she ever escape to where there is warmth, soft light and succulent dreams, , , cool-warmth of sweet-sleeping pleasure?

Oh? 

But where from comes this light, so little more than dark?
So she turns to its source, and sees
two bright-glowing points of pulsing spark-yellow ii’s,
obscured dark by moves of false-shadow sighs.

Their shape changes narrow as they squint first, then blink. 
Reflections of gold wink on large piles of treasures! 
Trinkets and a chest! 
Adorned jewels (clink),
and robust silk cloth, of the best-brightest pink!
Gold eyes;  narrow more than before, the light fades to dull orange;
backwards her cringe;  releases her find
and its sound “Chinkle chankles”, dank to the ground.

The dim angered orange so then eases a bit,
and the pale light warms closer to white,
then brightens quite light; 
as a large snake-forked tongue licks the air, slick black - 
Eyes penetrate cold,

and for the first time behold
what the storm for it this time has borne. 

As it drinks in this sight, the Dragon
gives thanks to the night. 
Then shivers in forlorn anticipation
of the first born rays
of the morrow's crazed dawn-light.  Jagged haze.

Looks she up first afeared,
then gains confidence at the eyes of saffron,
which bright to her body sleight respond.

Out of darkness this pair of dancers peer intent, then
swing in a violent violin song.

Its huge form so lurks,
a point flickering, , , pale in the murks,

maybe a tail,
                   she can't see; 

the only presence of bright she spies

“I am Princess Aphroka!” high-pitched her young voice, now tempted.  But the beast (more than beast) being a Dragon;  his tongue at once itched at the lie.  Sigh.  But Princess or no, his long-forked black taster, now twitched and inched closer to where she sat, preening her waves of hair.  Squeezing and straining the raindrops from streaming  curls of auburn air.

He thought just how tasty were all the young girls he had nibbled, and being a virgin, how sweet her skin smelt.  And from his lips dropped some acid to the floor where it dribbled, boiled, and bubbled.  So he hissed once more, tongue itching far from placid, itching sore.  Orbs of light betraying his desire, peering with dire obsession, and so he asks “for just a taste?” Of course that would be prior, to her concession, , , ?

Again she feared the fiend, imagining the scales and the slime still hidden in darkness;  hearing again the tales she had heard as a child (then felt a slight chill).  The starkness almost persuaded the fright to break her will, quake before its might;  and so concede meekly to the Dragon's whim, and inevitable pained-grim death.  But a wit was in her, so still remained wavering, her breath.

Twin mOOns he advances, swaying slowly at first, (in her mouth a tired thirst).  Now bobbing large eyes, swing lowly.  She thought of the worst, of cold and hunger... “maybe” she concedes a simper. . .  !  Startled back at this, the creature-slither then withdrew quickly, to debate with himself the possibility of breaking the Draconian laws of taste, and swallowing her cheaply.  Somehow she had won this round, , ,  though he would not be held off much longer, this little she knew.

“Earlier this day, a traveller came past my way too;  I ate him, of course, as most dragons might do, though pitifully he pleaded.  Normally however I hunt throughout the night-time, not the light-time, but on him he had some treasure-scrolls that I needed.  And also some goods in a chest, that one you're seated on;  and so in it are some trivial things you might find of use.”

His black tongue thick-lolls:  “Being outdoors in the day is difficult for me in even cloudy weather at best;  my magic is so drained, I must simply rest”.  He slithered, or crept to the other side of the cave, rustled a bit then quietened. . . contemplating how much longer it would take her to give in to his deprave-heightened hunger, , , crave-frightened craze-blighted plunder!

Opening the chest, she retrieves from its contents a cool flask of wine.  Rich feel of liquid, red bright on lips, spilling slight from her light sips, its quenched-unquenching respite;  and tight the bottle-neck grips she, in sensual delight.

Again she looks in the chest, tries on a hat, longs for a mirror, yet alters it anyway and left it at that.  Fingers feel the cloths, !the touch of a slim cold !dagger!!, and bravely without duress, slips the ivory blade safely, inside the folds of her new won dress.

{58}

Movements in the black, quite nearby;  young movements of girl-near.  A barely burning sigh crept clear out his nostril, and soothed at her fear.  A moment of quiet in the spite, a moment to wait;  the colour in his eyes still yellowing the light-faint.  Her hand finds a lantern, and some flint too, a small bottle of oil, in her eyes flicker a glint:  “At last;  look Mr beasty, look what I've found, something to. . .

. . .smash. . .

. . .the might of Tail collects her body, flicking it across the cave, colliding solid with the wall - KracK, then thuDD.  She lay still.

Quickly he lifts a claw and destroys the lantern.  After smashing once, smashes more.  Smashing still.  Then smash it’ core.

Eyes;  tiny points, barely shining sanguine. Dull droplets of hardly deepened blood, silent staring at the moment still;  the echo of violence fades.  And so he moves to where the body lies, just an inkling of remorse.  Thaw eyes, cold of fire;  his glow narrows gold, desperate and dire.  Bruised-eye-closed, becomes a slit, a sharp pupil jags out, bit by bit.  Then lOOk back, as his ochre-grey prys, stare motionless, but for changes in exuberant colour-eyes.

His phrase, a sharp white tooth, his tongue flicking quickly, dark and uncouth, depraved as the untruth:  “I apologise for your aches, but I fear your clarity of light, like you fear my insidious night”.  His eyes then retreated, stark livid;  dark fetid.  Its giant form curled up to a corner where the night still crept.  Then slept as

peaceful as possible for a Dragon in contempt and embittered;  alone with his night;  his fright.  Once again, more coldly than before, she shivered.

{59}

Cold.  Pain is a razor-edged icicle.  Unrelenting it prods once more at the last sanities of warmth.  Slim-stiff-limbs ache:  Echoes of quake-torment.  Still?  More pain?

It feels like a shower of stones on her already throbbing back-bone.  Each time one hits, the shock resonates through a once coddled body.  Another hard thuDD, and one of the burdens lands next to her eye.  A gold coin?  Can a dark beast, revealed only by two white-eye-lights, ever look smaller? - Worm-belly-crawler!  “I have given you forty-one pieces of Gold” the slick night intones, and brief white fades to dull orange;  tremoring in the glower.

A small sense of well-being, by removing caked blood.  Head throbs.  Her look at the pieces of gold is disdain, then she cherishes a giggle (but pain!):

“I'll have only one thanks. . .”

“You don't want the rest?!?”

no.

“Can I have them back then?”

. . .yes

. . .

. . .

“I want to leave now...”

no!  You are mine-morsel-precious-tasty-white-flesh-to-devour,

mine, , , MINE. . .  MINE ALONE !.

{60}

But out on a hill, the moon ushers ‘way clouds, and stars relieve the storm as vigil o'er the night.  There tramps a horse bearing a rider well groomed,  armoured, and noble-white-plumed;  mounted strong upon his gallant white strider.  Hoofs pound the giving ground with airing nostrils billowing.  The wind is sharp, hard and bound.  Flaring breath chills, then the clops of the young horse's sound stops;  and only wind shrills.

Our rider feels through the halt in his beast, that his path is unknown, and over the dark hills they move again slow.  Sir white-horse clips on faithfully, and clops on bravely, towards the cave of venom, where some clever small creature, or just part of fates feature has led him.  Then cantering gracefully and now galloping gravely to rescue the fettered child-girl, red-raving in wild-curl, he contemplates if the Dragon might yet have et her.

Back at our couples lair;  where a sullen mood grips the air, and anger lurks;  the Dragon's lips and nostrils flair, and 'round his head jerks, to the pang of Do-gooder.  And, at the foul glint of purple that reflects in his eyes, for the first time she in his mouth spies;  which irks at her soul, unsaid lies, they flicker,  forked tongue smirks, and then lolls slicker:

“You've been talking with squirrels, or some other such drivel, and now some knave Knight, comes smirking and brave for a fight:  But my ire burns fierce as it shames me.  Yet fiercer still, my breath of flames seer dire, I fear your champion shall soon smoulder and shrivel in hellfire!”  He watched where her bones lay, warm flesh on cold stones, and did not hear her prayer in soft tone;  chants helpless in dismay, words hapless, for a new day.

            Raven-shade:

            Crouching folded, with slackened blackened wings,
            moon-staring twilight, cool-airing flings;
            a pair of points, shining candle-sharp,
            solemn smooth as ebony pearled,
            longing with moments curled ecstatic in dark.

            Raven-shade:

            silence lurks in a violet-cry,
            a child-high call, lingering unafraid,
            substance;  inaudible, small as a sigh.

            And dawn!

            Ever I await Spring morn,
            Ever I believe in being new,
            on leaves of fairie born,
            in scents of melody and rainbow hue.

            Yet Raven-shade,

            laced intricate in an evening parade,
            I await;  cast 'way your smoth'ring glooms,

            yet still,

            remain adorn'd vespertine, thrilled by tunes.

{61}

As the fear climbs his tail, and joins
with the anger festering in his mail;  wings spread
then prime, throat bare wide open, as he sing-screams
his chimed-moping slime-groping wail.

The last living shadows gather
to his aid, as darkness rings his move.

Languid drifts spite, enshrouded in sad wings,
smoothed of implacable scale.

{62}

Clang shuts the Knight's visor, and shang draws his sword of viper from belted scabbard.  Helmeted, his stance is haggard, and overwhelmed now by fears as shadows escape the light;  then rears his frothing beast tense and restless before the fight.  Lurks of thorns scratch its flanks, and cheers cry from night-imps.

Already blood has been drawn before the Knight first sights the enemy - sunk and forlorn, loping its way like a dark thunderous storm-cloud, it gathers its

shadows close;  as a shroud-gloom drowns the twilight.  At the first waft of sin, the pale horse bucks high, and to the ground falls its burden, his armour crumpled tin.  Helpless he lies;  his new-sharpened sword down a ravine clatters;  and in the small girl's soul, before the fight even begins, all hope quietly shatters.

Her form now is a ball, far from the treasure bags.  Damp hair now untwirled, a soft life curled in cold rags.  Alone with the beast that haunts the ledges of dark crags, unfurled by the edges of the edge of all worlds.  He gazes at his victory, from where the howl-shadows lurk.  His smirk, breath-foul with the tang of the gallows:  “I have eaten your saviour, white horse and soft head.  Hearken to me!  Your hero is dead!”

The last of these words, echoing in the void where she once wept.  So thirst bled cry-dust where once her heart leapt.

“Now to me you must adhere, come here and die, I have a tooth just for you.  My desire breathes stronger, and I will not wait longer for your virginity to agree with me;  and you cannot even dream how to flee from me.”  His head lifts now clear, and breathes fetid fumes quite near to where she sits.  Peering here eyes spy to where death’s jaw looms, and once more she must rely on her sly wits:

Stilted sullen rose, and backward inched in wilted poise; still aloof.  But 'a-sudden the morbid Dragon's nose flinches at the sound of Noble hoof.  And upon purple mountains, many times morned, a new sun of Gold flickered once, and upwards adorned.  Her heart leapt and sang at the sight of dragon's scales, green in the light, as in one feared moment he sprang with a scream.  Outside in part-darkness, held tight in weathered harness, another Knight waited, (less handsome than the last, and limp-gaited).  With steed of medium-mottled-brown, unflinching and steadfast, wild mane unplaited.

For the first time the Dragon's scales caught sun-light and turned blue.  The rider heaved his horse in its ribs;  and the Dragon knew to act quick, for in the day-time the darkness of his power slacks and ebbs.  The shades slowly melt, his black eyes gleam acid, as he longs for the safety of blackness;  dark placid.

The Knight moves forward carefully and
unsheathes his chipped and blunted sword,
notched and scarred in many battles.

He blesses its thick blade,

and in noble agreement
his horse shakes its head;
while its barding clatter-rattles.

She walks with first-light of morn on sunlit path, then drinks in the sunlight of Celestial Hearth, its Majesty crests a monolith Mountain over the distant glow’ing Earth.  Then up sees she an instance of streaking dragon, tale twirling with speed;  flailing and whirling, bejewelled greed.  Green grace and blue silence blend violet-dances-purple, where it spectacular-spiral-prances, in subtle violent curls.  Chance’s.  Fly-hurtle.

So much quicker than silver can go, smooth as a dream-flow.  Scream-vivid, the creature leaps at its valiant foe.  Their clash echoes the sound of Creation, and those echoes inspire songs in lands where Dragons are myths, and worlds where the Knights are as dark as hell's spawn.

The horse leapt not, but being balanced held its ground in the first moments of dawn, raising its hooves, steady backing on its dusty scarred thighs, snapping back the thorns without bruise.  Gold and indigo rang the sky's new scent, and they clashed frozen on the first-born rays, in a thirst-torn craze.  And the horse's eyes beheld shadows of the devils worst worn days.

Wings of might, leather and scale, cold as evening moods, indulgent to their own vain flight of broods, together flail.  With a soul of their own the green hid 'midst purple-deep;  then they moved as the night, together with rhythms found only succulent in sleep.  Twisting wings then run, unlistening to the Dragon, more intent on their own prance-bound.  For the first time bristling new-found colours under the Sun.  Their only real dance, Icarus, the moth, understanding eternity in the momentary ecstasy of death’s transient flicker. . . then  they dropped. . .

The horse frothed
            between square yellow teeth
                        of the most mundane beast.

The Dragon arched, ever vengeful in hatred,
            ebony of eve, pale in the sun;
                        the ghost of a dream,
                                    agonising grieve.

And the soft-wrinkled Knight,
            fused to his horse in the wrath,
                        flung-bound at the Dragon once more,
                                    eyes not stern, nor fierce,
                                                almost regretting the anger.

                                  Lonely as a tumbleweed in a maelstrom of orgies.
                        The strength which tears his foe, the eyes which tear
            for the foe;  streaming in gales, and the last drop of sun climbs
skyward, where ails the last shadows ‘ere Night has shone.

            And the final flicker of indigo

is gone.  All that breathes on the new birthed dawn, is a beast.  Hoofs brown with blood, warmed from its God in the East.  Nostrils echo the clouds, and the hoof stamps patiently, listening for other unexpected sounds.

Stands she half-ashamed at all the fuss, half acclaimed beyond mere lust.  A virgin of the morn.  Then bends down she, touches the Knight's brow, and wipes the sweat away.  Clogged brown with dust, congealed as mud.  !Hoping that it is not mixed with his heavenly blood-trust.  Bent, he now stumbles, and stands first, then grumbles at the agonising void where once his sword-hand fumbled.  Clang went then the tin of armour, as it falls to the ground, never again to be worn in honoured battle, never again to ring true with sound, violent-rattle.

Between contorted teeth of Dragon, in its sullied mouth, a bloodied fist still holds tight to a sword hilt;  ever in grief, fighting in the brief swirls of time, tongues and teeth.  Ever smiting the foul beast, last wilt of the warrior, long in the past, a memory invoked over and again in its prime, where all movement is eternally vibrant, yet ceased.  And unsighted by all, placed neatly in the heart of the Dragon, a milk-slim dagger, mortal in its horror.  Subtle pure agony of blade, embedded deep in the last few violets of sin-grave.

She could no longer look more at the Dragon, though she longed still for emerald scale, and azure-winged passion.  Then mounted she the old horse at her brave Knight's insistence, though the length of his stagger whimpered inward.  Briefly thought she of the sleight-strength of the ivory dagger;  but allowed herself to be led away, , , a virgin still to this very day, , ,