I
The Baron owned,
All that was upon the moor.
He summoned the nobles,
To his Manor for a tour.
Some came in twos,
While others arrived in ones.
But all came forth,
To attend the Baron's ballroom dance.
Ushered in, by servants,
Away from the cold's kiss.
Inside, hot as a beast's maw,
Chill from spines to warmth did transit.
Tapestries hung,
Calling for their pathos.
Heavy as sleepless eyelids,
Depicting war, victories and chaos.
Arched ceiling and stairways,
A gargoyle here and a golem there.
Musty yet polished, the light shone,
On the statues' head with no hair.
The Baron led the way,
Boasting of the *Opus Francigenum.
The guests savoured in delight,
Every word and each tenor.
The Manor De Baptiste,
Sprawling from outside.
The greatest wonder ever seen,
By nobles of the countryside.
Wine was brought forth,
Flowing not unlike the Dordogne.
Filling heads, emptying sense,
Semblance of a drunk in morn.
After traversing
A considerable number of steps,
They arrived at the doors to the fabled
Ballroom of expensive tastes.
One by one,
The guests were herded inside.
Some milled about, some danced,
No small doing of wine, some only tried.
As the night passed,
The fervour did not.
Candle lit faces swaying,
To the sounds of mellow songs.
Portraits of fathers gone and
Fathers before them bore witness,
To the sultry evening of joy.
The nobility unfamiliar with distress.
He looked on, the Baron.
Occasionally sipping his own wine.
Never tasting the stock provided
To the "nobles", the swine.
Hundreds now within,
Impervious to worldly events.
Were soon to discover,
Cries of laughter would turn to laments.
II
The monstrous clock struck thrice,
On its ivory gong.
The ebon pendulum suspended,
With the abating of the song.
His voice shushed all,
The Baron, he spoke thus;
"Nobles, gather around, if you would,
Listen to my tale, you must."
The guests by now, fever
Rising and swelling in their chests,
Came ahead to receive,
What they assumed to be some jolly jests.
" You will all die shortly."
In absence of a suitable response,
And to please their gracious host,
The guests showered him with applause.
Reader, be aware,
The wine was not just.
It was more and it was less,
Brewed from an evil lust.
Bane of the valley, the Baron,
In his forest he had his final ****.
Six hundred and sixty six,
Children, mothers and fathers, their bodies still.
A penchant for death,
An emissary for the Dark.
The Baron's necessities
With the years grew stark.
For each life his Forest claimed,
The flesh was brought to the Manor.
Servants collected the cursed blood,
Bodies hung like carrion banners.
"On the eve preceding this,
I arranged for wine exquisite.
From my own personal vineyard,
Partaking in the vintage, a requisite!"
The unknowing, innocent
Lambs in his den.
Still aloof of the liquid in their throats,
Wishing the glorious taste would not end.
And as sudden as a viper,
One noble retched blood.
Fetid emission reached noses,
And thus began the flood.
Within minutes, the expulsion spread
Much like the cursed blood in their veins.
The nobles had partook in unholy crime,
Life of innocents they had drained.
"More!"
A united voice cried out.
The blood had reached its peak,
The murmurs had turned to shouts.
The wild ecstasy filled the room,
A frenzy palpable in the vicinity.
Each guest staring at the Baron,
As the clock entered the Hours of Trinity
"Die"
He whispered like a lover's caress.
And so they did,
Under enchanted duress.
The guests, imbibed with evil
Of the Forest, snapped at each other.
No onlooker in a riot of death,
That night, like beasts they were butchered.
Eyes were gouged, nails and teeth,
Faces torn apart.
A crimson smile extended to some,
From neck to the heart.
Ladies so graceful,
Now murderous under the influence.
Descending upon their counterparts,
Tearing, ripping body and limbs.
Upright feet were the sole ones,
Not drowning in the sea of maroon.
Other extremities of the body,
Like driftwood under the ocean moon.
Not soon, excruciatingly, they fell,
Till one pillar of red stood.
Under the candlelight, black
Devoid of an eye, fingers, lips and a foot.
She staggered to the Baron,
Gripped his legs in divine embrace.
"Up ma cherie", a command,
To Death personified in grace.
"You shall mind my keep forevermore"
A champion born of bloodlust.
Assigned to nurture the Forest, his child.
A newfound mother, in her the Baron's trust.
The Baron's Forest is a complimentary poem if readers are interested.
