Oh Hai! Sorry for the delay

It's been quite a while since I've posted here, but as mentioned on my primary blog, I'm in the process of building up the state of the Ae'rinus estate in preparation for the novel about Nigel.
Speaking of,

Here's an old story written about Nigel shortly after his Bloody attack on Darkepoole.

Quiet was that morn, three buildings still ablaze.

Those roads, stood thick, silent, half-drowned in mid-summer’s mud,

while slate cloth whipped at the mailed guards of th’ gate.

Six they stood, yet five more laid to rest,

giving their lives over to that greedy mud.

Only their families will notice an absence at the dinner table, but to what end?

Their palates certainly harden; mold becomes a viable necessity,

while father sleeps on duty.

O Darkened morn, the type not even the most blottered ‘d venture.

A morn so dry of life, th’ fires on Bilk St., Amber St., Arc St. seem all the less cold.

So soddin’ dry that th’ clink clink an’ th’ rough calls fro’ that dread party

did split the smoggy skies, split as if ‘twere th’ sun (not that it is oft seen),

split us all with that blasted, fearful axe of oppression.

Six knights about one white pawn dress’d black

and bearing th’ wooden pile ‘cross ‘is back.

No deft hands shall loose th’ bonds ‘round his bony wrists.

No brave sod’ll free that barrow man; those briny bloods,

deftest at th’ draw, bars of “justice,” said haughtily, him surround.

Birds of a feather, birds of a feather, why not flock together?

Where for art that bloody boxman?

Boxman, boxman, break that lock.

Slide swift forward, sharpen sweet spines,

still their thirst in that bloody brine.

But yet no bird did squawk, not finch, not swallow, not wren,

but to their nests didst they fly.

Go Hide! Go Hide! Was their cry.

Go hide, go hide, oh, ye knaves of little faith.

Ye knights of the post, gallows birds, sops, nappers, ark ruffians, and filchers.

You cracksmen, foists, made men, moon cursers, and anglers.

Do ye not see what ‘e did for thee?

Why then do you fly, go hide, while e’ll be thrown in the wooden ruff,

dragged of to th’ queer ken, tort’red and beat?

What will you say when ‘e catches hempen fever?

Will ye understand then, what this white pawn done?

None but silent eyes heard that mud-sotted pawn

led by the slate clothed myrmidons,

the rusted bars of “Justice,” a hollow triumph for this oak stripp’d hamlet.

Methinks ye blottered birds, soon realize the shiny trappings

that lie unguarded under these smoke ridden docks.

And who doth ye attribute for this extra clink?

Yea none but that barrow pawn, that noble blood,

for whom ye owe newfound wealth,

for whom ye owe this shaved hierarchy,

shaved by that verray pawn,

barrow man,

blood,

to whom ye didst not help.

How dare ye sit to gain fro’ ‘is loss?

‘Tis life, ‘tis said. ‘tis as crying beef to your brother,

your flock; would ye dare that misfortune?

What repugnance faces yon wretches?

Wretched birds. A pox upon your flock!

May yon upright man find his wine too sweet this night!

For I find no ken in this wretch no more!

Yon place in the deadbook is reserved, may’t be a pleasant entry.

-Marlowe-

-Posted upon the door of Arcan Mather’s Thief Guild, Mid-summer 15, year 1440.