Stone-Wood-Mud-Rogue
written only by the wemyss
I am but a humble acrobat, yet I (so divorced from common course in royal view) am hammered into further use than earn-ed knight n’ era’d dragon.
I am the quiet in the air, the ghost without tale or witness or name. Fish-I-er with pole of wave, hook on tongue and bait decorum. Necessary, I am deemed, yet with no record by necessity, I must ask who it is that scuttled bean and who is vet to eat of me?
I do no work with blade, as the children may have told you, and though so tempting is it tipping vial in a johnny cake, I would destroy myself for the attempt.
Once real, I am nothing. Once sought, I am found. But one scuff from velvet boot of mine burn eons drafted by my absence.
Nor can I be the origin; it is not for us to do but know, as again I must repeat there is no use for me a force. None but stone-wood-mud know truly of our storied story and only one of us can write.
I leave record unto you, woman, person, of a time when I am dead, when my task were never easier.
Will I regret my life of nary with time doubled in the grave?
Or when the horn come blast them risen, will the haggard of the yardflock sing to me, and again, for the story of the world?