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The Tamping of the Vulmandr
Yield to they, the Vulmandr:
the fiery rain upon worlds.
Nestled be these war machines,
born as keen blades made marrow and
flesh, in their Maddening Scar.
Fed by wide-scattered surpluses,
their momentum built on strife;
the wagging lips on elected
oracles and emperors
made slick by the spoils of war.
These, the tortured Vulmandr:
men, or non-men, with might threaded
into every sinew
that binds each finger to their hearts,
remain a subject of awe
to we few that had held witness
to their duplicitous raze:
cast down from sky, burnt free of air;
they envelope, immolate
and suffocate those in their wake:
poor laymen roiled by faith,
yet sadly doomed from the start.
But from infancy they've stood;
from discovery they've ravaged
and been a decisive force
in all matters, civil or not,
until this: an alliance
formed by those left firm underfoot
and floundering under siege.
A coiled fist of allegiance,
made taut and unfeeling by
generations of oppression
and tributes taken in greed,
is driven through the country's throat.
The gibbering heads of state,
teeth chattered and drool run afoul
of the mouth, plead and grovel
at archaic shrines made holy
once more by necessity.
But when their white icons collapse,
so, too, do they leap and fall
behind marching lines and units,
placed as an infernal shield.
The mighty Vulmandr hold true
and exhale broadening sheets
of devastation; all in vain.
Once thought of as eternal -
their empire, a beacon placed
by time immemorial
among stars atop their bright peaks -
felled swift by those they once saw
as detritus bred for conquest.
In their burning capital,
the poorest Vulmandr lay slain
while their survivors tarry,
wounded deep and awash in blood,
as those held aloft by pact
quickly devolve into debate.
What of they, the dreaded, dear,
furious Vulmandr, now lost
and without kingdom to cull?
To which powers will they be dealt?
To what ends will they be launched?
What of populations who kneel
to this influence they've known?
What semblance will they have of home?
Weep for they, the Vulmandr:
downtrodden tools, now changing hands.
A family of fragments,
scattered, and forced to war with kin;
the hell they produce: a cry.
