Like a flock of ravens descending to the carrion fields,
The clouds of sable mist from heaven fell
Upon us; burning, choking, bodies warped, minds reeled,
Enveloped in darkness, loudly clanged Death's bell.
Survival bore the costly price of corporeal change:
Paid for Varian's amusement to slake his chaotic thirst.
Legs, once straight, broke and twisted in angles exceeding strange.
Skulls were split in agony as from our heads were birthed
Capricious horns to match our aimless and unreachable satiety.
Yet such a dark and ruthless curse came with a silver lining
For the clouds transfigured Sirens of indescribable variety
To grace us with seductive wit and beauty brightly shining.
Was the Satyr's blessed existence brought about by chance?
Should we thank the Logos or the machinations of the Other?
From whence comes the dashing pride and penchant for the dance,
The love of drink with maidens fair, and respect for his Brothers?


Penned by my hand on the 12th of Sarapin, in the year 401 AF.