|
Deep below the land seen by the sun,
Are the lands the deep races run,
From one bloody dark elf and orcish clash,
Was born a half-breed in the town of Rash,
He grew up a slave, his master a cruel orc,
Clumsy and slow he was useless for work,
His name was Baarog, meaning "bourne of rape",
His drow slave mother helped him escape,
As ugly as an orc and twice as dumb,
By both of his people he was shunned,
Wedged in a crevice, alone he slept,
While to him a band of dark elves crept,
They woke and beat him nearly to death,
With what he thought to be his last breath,
He cursed the dark elves and their god,
So they put out his eye with a fiery rod,
But left him to live out his accursed life,
Knowing he would see nothing except strife,
The curse had gained the attention of one,
Who relished strife and hated the sun,
A voice spoke to Baarog deep in his mind,
Asking him what he had sought to find,
"Power," the word making his spirit lift,
"What would you give to have that gift?"
"My life and my soul, and all that I am."
"Done," said the voice giving him a slam,
He awoke feeling strange, but just fine,
A feeling of power, better than wine,
The power to kill, to burn, to heal, to harm,
Power over the dead, long cold or still warm,
Calling on the power with a great cry,
He touched his face and regrew his eye,
Success filed him with both hope and greed,
Now to find a teacher to grow this seed,
A old and very powerful necromancer,
He found for a teacher and master,
The wizard was wise and cruel at heart,
He asked of Baarog to play a part,
In a dark ritual of pain and hate,
During the casting Baarog was slain,
The ritual succeeded causing Baarog to die,
Leaving no trace, except his new eye.
|
