BALLARD OF TRILL
A dark elven songstress of hypnotic prose
Will enchant you softly until comatose
Oceanic complexion with white hair in braid
A songful calm and a plunge of the blade
Amazed at the sight, to the shadows she fades
A tune at twilight, a hot stabbing pain
gasping for air, cleaving shoulderblade
Melt into death to a lullaby of hate
Succumb to the darkness, limp and dazed
Crumple into soil, your dusty grave
A parting lament from a daughter of hate.
A song I like to sing before I engage in combat, a song my Mother composed for me as a child learning to vocalise the spirit of hatred in the children of Innoruk.
I enjoy singing, I enjoy overpowering lesser races and coaxing them into mournful states so that my companions can quickly dispatch them.
I do not hide my love of intoxicating combat from anyone.
Yet as I have travelled, alone for the most part, I have softened in my loathing of others, I have been known to tolerate lesser races, simply out of necessity.
The dust on the road grinds hard at the vocal chords, you know. I am in search. Search for a community to join, to once again comfort myself with company, and with belonging.
Since leaving Freeport, I have been through arduous times, times that fuel my songs with lyrics but times that weaken my soul with weariness.
I search for place to recharge, a place to share, a place to be appreciated. I am currently within my twentieth and third phase of development as a combat vocalist. I have heard about an underground sect of Gnolls that deserve exploration and abuse, a place ripe for the picking. So I camp in and around the Thundering Steppes mainly, dangerous territory, full of those resistive to my laments.
Let me play for you, let me suffocate our enemies with dulcit tones of torment, so that we as a whole will be victorious. End my search. End my loneliness.