Love in Tyria

Seletii has many things! Her gems and jewels and coins and rings, And all the gladness that gold brings— It’s of these wonders this song sings Light agleam anoints her gown, Her ever-scarlet hair lies down Beneath a glinting crafted crown To frame a mien ever lown. And for her feet do black shoes shine, For to complete her set design. Yes, naught in Tyria is too fine To suit the Seletii divine. Where is she now?  Look, the sky! What richness lets asura fly? Seletii’s! below we cry The answer as she wafts on by— Upon an airship, through the blue, Our heroine takes in the view: The world below, hers to pursue Without a word or thought to rue. With her wealth she leaves the ground For contentedness she’s found, In gold and grace her visage bound, And revels in her pelf profound. Yes, Seletii has many things! Treasures for the likes of kings, Like capes and mechanical wings— It’s of these wonders this song sings.

My guardian, my righter of each wrong, Who guides my hand with hers in armoured glove Each day: thou fairest, fierce and ever strong. O Twekka! thou hast my undying love. From thy fingers, banishing the cold, A flame ignites the evil in the world. What light is this, that blazes blue and bold? Thy brutal beauty, Twekka's might unfurled! Destroyers cease, undone by sword and fire, Our ancient enemy returned to stone. How many beasts have fallen to thy ire? What broken bones and foes make up thy throne? Thy fervour, Twekka, shall ever have no peer But for within my heart when thou art here.

O Chydder! I do scrawl his name; It fills my heart with rapt’rous lust And one day you’ll be glad I came. Each blood-scribed letter’s just the same I’ll fly them till we fall to dust O Chydder! I do scrawl his name. My race is well known for its shame, And yours long dwelled beneath the crust, But one day you’ll be glad I came. Soon ends our romantic game, For through your throat a blade is thrust— O Chydder! I do scrawl his name! Not your visage for to maim, Though mine is one you cannot trust; Yet one day you’ll be glad I came. To your bed, your blood lays claim; Your name is writ, your limbs are trussed; O Chydder! I do scrawl his name, And one day you’ll be glad I came.

Two lovers lost in deep green dark,  Surround' by leaves and mold and bark,  Their arms entwined and scents surround,  And musk from pelts of tan and brown.  Knew not these two where futures might,  The pasts, though, held by bare skin white.  What comes of she?  What comes of her?  Addictions scald but will not stir.  All doomed is love that loves not joy,  When friends and comrades love destroys.  A heart is killed by one caress  If its bestower loves one less.  But what of she that takes the kiss?  She who lends her lover's bliss:  She's renting out her soul and shame;  Does not she take some of the blame?  The first can't rest; her claws contract;  The bones resound inside her back;  An ending in her tendons strung;  An oath of death astride her tongue.  First comes she to her lover's mate,  For blood her appetite to sate:  Above the streets the scoundrel hangs,  Just acrid air and burnt remains.  Then comes she to her mate before,  A knife in paw to win her gore.  But brown's prepared; a bullet flies,  A moment 'fore its wielder dies.  A blade in heart and shot in chest,  Two former lovers lay to rest.  But neither know what futures might  If they'd just strove to set things right.