Poetry

*There was a young Tiefling named Poetry*

*Who'd shown great skill and gun mastery*

*But the lords of the land*

*Held wars cards in their hand*

*And the sharpshooter couldn't just let things be*

*But her father was deaf to her cry*
*Not a sound of a voice would he hear*
*So the wild wolf did howl and the high-church bells tolled*
*And the cold wind blew 'cross the wild moor*

*Oh, how the old man must have felt*
*When he came to the door the next morn'*
*And he found Mary dead but the childe still alive*
*Closely grasping its dead mother's arm*.

*Then- in my childhood, in the dawn*
*Of a most stormy life- was drawn*
*From every depth of good and ill*
*The mystery which binds me still:*
*From the torrent, or the fountain,*
*From the red cliff of the mountain,*

*From the sun that round me rolled*
*In its autumn tint of gold,*
*From the lightning in the sky*
*As it passed me flying by,*
*From the thunder and the storm,*
*And the cloud that took the form*
*(When the rest of Heaven was blue)*
*Of a devil in my view.*

*Until... on Vinegar Hill... the final conclave.*
*Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.*
*The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave.*
*They buried us without shroud or coffin*
*And in August... the barley grew up out of our grave.*

*And he was jubilant; had he not won*
*The meed of praise his comrades haste to pay?*
*He smiled; he could not see what he had done;*
*The dead man lay two hundred yards away.*

*He could not see the dead, reproachful eyes,*
*The youthful face which Death had not defiled*
*But had transfigured when he claimed his prize.*
*Had he seen this perhaps he had not smiled.*

*He could not see the woman as she wept*
*To hear the news two hundred miles away,*
*Or through his every dream she would have crept,*
*And into all his thoughts by night and day.*

## Appearance

From the waist up, Poetry looks mostly human, albeit with larger hands, and piercing green eyes. His skin is barely tinged blue, his horns are barely ridges, easily hidden by his blonde hair, and Wrathian military winter cap. a long snake-like tail with a blade tip extends from his tailbone and scales with a light feather down the stretch from mid-thigh to his ankles. His feet are scaled monstrosities, with black, claw-like nails, and only three toes. When he laughs he shows a bit more of his heritage, with sharp fangs and a blood-red tongue that is slightly forked. His eyes contract to slits in bright light or when frightened.

For clothing, he wears a long black trench coat, with leather and metal protective plating over a Wrathian military uniform, and metal boots. The grey-black clothing shows off his various achievements. A belt carries his pistol, while a shoulder strap holds his long rifle at the ready.

## Friends & Acquaintances

Trent Dockson-Military Buddy. Served in the same unit for the last five years. Gave me a red crab shell to attach to my rifle stock.

Ishiyama Family- a bunch of children running around. Still wet behind the ears, best to teach them how the world works fast and hard.

## Poems

*Tiny dead crab of fire and slate
Lost your way? Gone astray?
Found your path to hell?
Guide my shot with devils hate.
Pierce their heart? Tear them apart?
Yes my tiny angry little shell*