Elvish Tor

Since my last epic managed to please a few of you, and since saying nice things about a poem is guaranteed to encourage such behavior... This one was written as a campfire tale.

THE BALLAD OF ELVISH TOR

Jay Greenstein

 

 

 

In the night so softly creeping, how gently to your sleeping spot.

Silent death comes, strangely weeping.  The horror known as Senicot.

 

To your place on silent paw, striping bare the deadly claw.

Ready now for feasting raw, the dripping fang, the hungry maw.

The claws that rend, the breath so hot.  It's time to feed the Senicot.

 

So run and pant, don't look behind�"or see your fear, and loose your mind.

Run on and on, and weep and cry.  Now time to scream…soon time to die.

 

From worlds beyond our earth and sky.  A creature comes who cannot die.

Who drools and kills, and stinks of rot.  The horror known as Senicot.

 

Why came this evil Senicot?  How came this devil to this spot?

How came this fiend from depths of Hell?  His story grim, I now will tell.

 

° ° °

 

Great winds there were that fateful year.  No omens came to give men cheer.

When Elvish Tor devised his plan, to give the power of gods to man.

 

He searches wide for scrolls long hidden.  With skills thought lost, and words forbidden.

Through town and port and forests vast.  He seeks great secrets from the past.

 

To mountain’s top, and valley too.  His search is long from clue to clue.

But then at last he finds the cave, the journey's end, the ancient grave.

 

Beneath the earth, in crypts of stone, where light is naught, and nothing's grown:

In chest of brass he finds the scroll.  To touch his mind, and twist his soul.

 

Its parchment hard, the ink mere stain, but power there is, a force in chain.

It's words were old, when mankind young.  No one alive could speak the tongue.

Long months he works, with bare a rest, then words come clear.

A quest!

A quest!

 

° ° °

 

Three things you need before you start.  The first to find, a virgin’s heart.

A maiden aged no more than eight.  Before her heart can fill with hate.

Ripped from her breast and held so high, her eyes must note it ere she die.

 

Next, mother's tears are what you need, as bound, she watches daughter bleed.

Ten drops you take from either eye, then she must be the next to die.

 

In blood of dam[1] ye keep the thing.  From hair of both you weave a ring.

Then burn them both and then begone.  Your quest you now must carry on.

 

Seek now a pair of lovers true, who share one life between the two.

Now kill their love, and twist their mind, till hate's the only thing they find.

 

With word and trick direct their fate, till love is gone, replaced by hate.

By word and deed, and scheme and lie, their love must end, their love must die.

 

Now, one must die by lover's hand.  Then tell the living of your plan.

Now drive that one to take their knife, and end the pain, and end their life.

 

Ten drops of blood you take from vein, Then quest is done, and home again.

 

° ° °

 

To most, this horror would repel, but Tor was in the grip of hell.

His course is set, no time to rest.  He starts upon the devil's quest.

 

In peddlers guise and heavy load, he marches down the endless road.

From town to town, through oak and birch, he now begins a deadly search.

 

Now find a town, walk boldly in.  (With lying smile, and evil grin)

While folks say "Welcome," with a smile.  "Come rest your boots, and stay a while."

 

If they could know the chance they take, they'd sooner bed a deadly snake.

For when he's gone, there's grief and tear.  There's missing folk, mistrust and fear.

 

° ° °

 

How many maidens felt the knife?  How many maidens lost their life?

Till Elvish Tor learned needed skill.  Till knife and hand learned how to kill.

Till dying eyes saw heart held high.  And dying lips moan "Dear God, why?"

How many mothers weep and cry? And crying, wait their turn to die.

 

Ten years he wandered, length and breadth.  Ten years of pain and fear and death.

Ten years a plague upon the land.  Ten years of death held in his hand.

 

The lives he's ruined would fill a tome[2].  But now he turns his steps to home.

To finish out a quest most odd.  To dare to dream…become a god.

 

° ° °

 

In deepest dark he waits the time.  He speaks the words, he chants the rhyme.

The blood and tears, they mark the sign, on breast and brow, of demon's vine.

While ring of hair upon his head, like crown of hell, salutes the dead.

 

The words now said, the chant complete.  The time has come, her heart to eat.

And as he does, this Elvish Tor, he feels the force into him pour!

 

He grows in size, has strength and power.  Now is his time!  Now is his hour!

He is a god... but god of what?  The god of death, the Senicot.

 

All gone the dreams of Elvish Tor.  All lost like dust upon the floor.

A thing he is, that cannot die,  that roars its rage at midnight sky.

 

° ° °

 

So in the night so softly creeping.  How gently to your sleeping spot.

Tor's silent death comes sadly weeping.  The horror known as Senicot.

 

To your place on silent paw.  Striping bare the deadly claw.

Ready now for feasting raw.  The dripping fang, the hungry maw.

The claws that rend, the breath so hot.  It's time to feed the Senicot.

 

So run and pant, and look behind, and see your fear, and loose your mind.

Run on and on, and weep and cry.  Now time to scream...soon time to die.

 

So stay together, you and I.  And pray to never hear that cry.

And know him coming to your spot.  The horror known as Senicot.

 

° ° ° ° °

 

Author’s note

 

The Ballad of Elvish Tor was written to provide a bit of campfire entertainment for a group of Boy Scouts (although it did seem to get a bit out of hand for the age group).  In case you haven’t caught the joke, you might be interested to know that the name Senicot was deliberately taken from the laxative of the same name.  I’d decided to write a story designed to “Scare the crap” out of the boys, and the name popped into my head.  The first verse wrote itself, and all else followed from that.

---

[1]  Dam - A female parent.  Usually used with reference to an an animal

[2] Tome - A large heavy book

Reviews

[Melissa]

I love this campfire tale! A very fun and frightening poem. Lovely rhythm and very well done all around!

[H L Rose]

The first four stanzas are absolutely gripping. I love the word choice and how it intensifies with each stanza, starting with “softly”, “gently”, “weeping” and growing gruesomely to “dripping fang”, “scream”, and eventually “kills, and stinks of rot”.

Stanza 5 seems like a necessary bridge to the next part of the story. I’m a novice at writing so I can’t say much, but this stanza does seem a bit forced. Especially the rhyming with “spot”, but I could just not know what I’m talking about.

Sections 2 of the story is intriguing and feels like a true “epic”, or at least it reminds me of ones I have read. It feels like an adventure and the repetition of “A quest!” makes you excited for what comes next!

The quest in section 3 is horrifying which I’m sure is the point. Both parts of the quest take advantage of loving relationships which I find interesting.

Section 4 kind of gives the reader the creeps. The reader can imagine for themselves what the snake-like Tor with a smile would look like. I like how you also mention the aftermath of when he leaves with “missing folk, mistrust and fear”.

I like the repetition in section 5 and how it relayed the passing of time well.

I liked the tension that is built up in section 6. I do think that it is a bit confusing at first because the reader didn’t realize that Tor only took one heart and saved it despite repeating his killing a bunch of times over a decade. But again, what do I know?

I’m a fan of the repeating of the first section in the end. It ties it all together and gives it a campfire story time feel.

I really enjoyed this story and it’s written so skillfully! Glad to have read it!

[Jeremy]

You have serious skill; this was awesome! You choose your the words delicately, ad though the rhyme scheme is simple, the story being told shows the amount of difficulty.
My favorite line was "Ready now for feasting raw, the dripping fang, the hungry maw"
Excellent word choice. The poem has a great sense of dark fantasy mixed with brutality that never comes off as corny or overdone. I look forward to reading more of your stuff, great job!

[Cherrie Palmer]

What an epic tale, lots of fun all it needs is stars and a campfire

[Delmar Cooper]

I was convinced until the epilogue that this was an iteration of some Celtic myth outside my knowledge. Convinced mind you. I was also convinced that Senicot was an unhappy coincidental homophone with the laxative Senokot.
I believed you were influenced by Carroll's Jabberwock , "The claws that rend, the breath so hot."
I am glad I read the epilogue so that I can fully admire your creative and satirical talent and quit alassing my own ignorance. I'd much rather covet your talent than worry about missed myths.

[JayG]

Lacy, in answer to "which heart did he eat?" the answer is that only one of the victims had their heart removed and stored:

"Ripped from her breast and held so high, her eyes must note it ere she die."

[Shannon Miller]

My only complaint is the weird punctuation - all the periods confused me. But I thoroughly enjoyed it. One question: which heart did he eat?

[Indigomoon]

I like it in the sense of a ballad as it had the lyrics and tale of a ballad that would have been sung by bards. I enjoy the joke of senicot the flow was nice and fully of joy and boast as most ballads are. I however know a lot about lore and Thor does have god like powers mainly because he is a god along with his brother loki as I supect that is where Elvish Tor came from. I do like it and it is very entertaining so well done.

[Norbanus]

No doubt, among your audience at large,
you'll find a number cringing in despair.
remembering someone, who when in charge,
had done some thing outrageous and unfair.

But here we see the justice arrow fly.
No way to keep it stopped from pal and foe.
The scouts are all prepared and they will try,
to make it to the outhouse, don't ya know?

This non-refined, and barren land of jest,
has opportunities unknown at home.
No ghosts nor goblins needed for this test
of where it's save for anyone to roam.

Scout camps are often deep within the woods.
Be careful where you step. Don't squash the goods.

[Tom]

I am really impressed! The flow was spot on, and the whole poem, in epic form.
I will enjoy reading more!