Gothica
As told by Mariner Rikk Keyliard at the Imperial Marketplace of Portburgh, at the second day of the hay month 1207 A.D. around noon, and chronicled by Imperial Cleric Scribent Paperius.

Hear ye, hear ye, and listen to my tale
Hear ye, hear ye, it is free and not for sale
Hear ye, hear ye, and listen to my tale!
(This is the normal way for storytellers and gleemen to attract attention on marketplaces or other places of the kind and was repeated until a flock of people gathered around the Mariner who then introduced himself, SP)

The lands beyond the mountains high, far to the southeast
Beyond the fertile lands of Tellor, are the lands of the deceased
The lands are empty there, and none there goes, on bet nor dare
For Gothica is long since gone, trees are dead and fields are bare

And all the people know, that whoever goes to Gothica, to wander
Never comes around to ponder, what be that for eyeless stare?
Be it ghosts, long since forsaken, by whatever we hold dear,
Be it halfmen, spawned in dark and distant places, places that we fear?

I see thy glittering eye, Youngman, thy wonders if I know
That to speak of things like this, of such foul polluted souls
Haunting hills and breaking wills - killing the unborn
Be it blasphemy, I ask thou, be it blasphemy to warn?

I warn thou, youngster, lad of noble blood, I warn thou all the more,
for I’ve seen that eye before, that eye beholds the lust
to wander all the lands, to wander and explore
I warn thou, youngster, and remember this thy must

Never go to Gothica, and leave the dead within there still and silent graves
For if thy makes the same mistakes, I’ve made when I was young,
Thy might not have the same amount of luck, nor time to sing this song
The song of life, I sing, but I nearly sung to song of slaves

Slaves be they, slave to death and slow decay – in their graves they lay
At night they haunt the hills, but never during day
Light forsaken be they now, though it wasn’t always so
Before the halfmen came, soultakers be they, our eternal foe

But they held them upon themselves, in greed and decadence they roared
- For once the realm was great and splendorous, and the king a noble lord -
In they’re arrogance they roared that nothing earthly could compare
Not their might nor to their cities, which all were great and fair

Nothing earthly could compare perhaps, except maybe an eyeless stare
Corruption of a noble heart, is on what they thrive – like wasps on honey in a hive
And corrupt they tried, a heart so pure, and alas – I ask, what could endure?
A force so strong of bliss and might, I answer, nothing pure and fair

And slowly Gothica began to fall, alike their unguarded walls
And halfmen came round pillaging, and ravens came along
And wolves and other beasts, who fight with them in war
And all in Gothica, they lost their lives, lost life and also soul

I was told this on a winters night, a bleak December without moon
When I was lost and did not know I’d be inside a grave real soon
A man he was, dressed in grey, a man of wealth and taste
He said he’d been around for a long, long time, and in my eye he gazed

But no real eye was there to meet, my then yet naive sight
I didn’t know it, but he had the smile alike a wolf before it bites
He told me the tale of Gothica, the fall and sudden end
And asked me if I was weary, for I could sleep inside his tent

I asked the man, where be thy tent, old stranger, where be it of which thy speaks?
He pointed just beyond a hill, somewhere in the dark
And I saw a flock of ravens, big and black, even black their beaks
And I was scared by those foul birds, who merely sat, stared and didn’t lark

So I politely refused, and asked the man directions
Back to where my ship lay docked, docked upon the shore
And the grey dressed feller, pointed me towards the north
While south the way was I implored

So north we did go that night, I trusted the undead
While storm clouds gathered in the east, as well as in the west
We climbed upon the hills that brought me farther from my boat
Until the man said he knew a shorter way off road

Again the ravens were there upon the field and I was scared to go
But he persuaded, and off road I did go, passing raven carefully, carefully and slow
But all they did was merely stare, stare at me and nothing more
I wager they all knew, knew the correct direction to the seashore

And then there were hundreds more, ravens but also crows
And wolves and other beasts, beasts that fought in war
And I was absolutely horrified by such an evil sight
Hundred dead danced around a fire burning bright

Then suddenly I knew, where off to had I wandered
‘t Was Gothica, and nowhere else, I now stood there in wonder
I realized my end was nearing, but then I started fearing
For my soul and the shadow it was under

What is that, youngster? – is that disbelief I there detect?
It be lies thy there suspects? – I thou ask, Am I not trustworthy?
Ask the others gathered here, or better yet: hold a survey
They will tell you I am honest and my tale is as true as it is correct

Now, there I was, between the beasts and the undead
And my life was hanging by a thread
They danced with me the dance of death, and slowly I felt weaker
And my hair went grey – as you can see today – and my skin, my skin went bleaker

‘Wretch’, I cried, ‘Pleased my Lord and saviour! In thou I trust’
‘t Is true, I haven’t always done what I have must’
‘But I can change! Save me now, please and not forsake’
‘Please save my eternal soul, please, for Goodness sake!’

And then, the rains began to fall, while an old man I had become
And with the storm I ran away from that evil spot, until my feet felt numb
And none followed me through those hills, for the storm had blown them all away
And when the sun rose that winters day, I saw my where my ship lay

At first my mates, they did not recognize, now that I was old
And they said they did not believe, but none went off the boat
To see that evil, evil spot of land, up in those undead hills
Of which the thought alone gives me shivers and with fear my heart does fill

So take warning all of you, do not go into Gothica, and certainly not alone
For the dead still dance the dance of death and stare and laugh and moan
And beasts stare too, they merely stare at this soulless doom
In Gothica the dead do dance, and haunt, and nothing there does bloom .