The Tapestry of the Shadowlands

From a gilded throne, Chaos Thane, Hollow proclaims,
Though what he speaks is empty, formed with rue.
He names the Fae, but calls them weak and shamed,
Destined to walk the path where only ruin grew.
“Bring not your dreams, for dreams are cold and few—
Upon these walls your fate—hope shall never stay.
For every song you weave will prove untrue,
And every dawn shall end in swift decay,
Your shining wings shall blacken on the way.”

The walls are draped in woven scenes of fright,
On umber cloth, with threads of darker hue—
Yet finely stitched, it seemed the fae by night
Had worked their magic, each a horror new.
A possessed needle, piercing the soul through.
Each panel stills the heart and shocks the face:
A goat plays pipes beneath the thorns with rue,
As nymphs and fawns, back and forth they race,
yet in their pathetic rambles cannot leave the place.

One panel shows Druids in their rite,
Beneath the gnarled oak’s ancient, twisted frame.
Their torches flare against the cloak of night,
Their chants rise wild, their eyes like burning flame.
With bloodied hands, they danced around their claim,
Their spells half-uttered, half in thunder cast.
No voice but theirs, no creature dare exclaim—
The woods and winds, like spirits rushing past,
Moan low in dark assent, as if the pact held fast.

Another shows a Fae knight in forest deep,
His armor pierced, his blade dull, unsure.
His steed rears high, in fearful staggered leap,
While through the brush, the foolish fae’s path, a lure.
With bow and axe, he strides with coy demure,
As morning’s red begins to gild the trees.
The knight, bleeding from his head, doesn’t stir—
And from the thicket springs a darkling foe,
a fight, disturbing, killing both with ease.

A caravan from Eastern lands appear,
Its camels tall, their burdens rich and vast.
Across the desert sands they slowly steer,
Led by Fae scouts whose eyes are sharp, feet fast.
They search for water, each step feels like their last—
A stream would be salvation they would greet.
To those who thirst, its sound is unsurpassed.
Yet grief is theirs as they lack the spring’s retreat,
No joy for these as sky engulfs all in scorching heat.

Beside the raging river, daughters of the sun
Kneel low in prayer, their skin a gleaming shade.
The river rolls, its cruel current is spun
With a dark that makes the soul itself afraid.
As the muddy bank makes the ground with water swell—
To lead these maids into mucky depths, bodies are laid,
Screams drowned in mire beneath the sinkhole hell,
Where silence meets the stream where they fell.

The tapestries grow darker, more bovine—
As if the threads are spun from Stygian air.
No needlework thread could so tightly twine,
These tapestries that leave colors drowning there.
It seemed a spell had summoned forms so rare—
A Mount of fire rising in demonic light
with lava hissing mist that all eyes sting,
rivers of red lapping at meadows, burning ash white,
And all the flowers, the souls, vanishing out of sight.

Around the mountain’s edge, some climbers rise,
Their faces turned skyward, breathing in the heat.
They seek hope with hopelessness in their eyes—
A realm of pain, empurpled in the night.
Few reach the top, that rare unreal site,
Where souls find they cannot stay.
They fall headlong, weightborn in their flight,
Their forms burn gossamer in flamed array,
Each casting ash that drifts beyond day.

Then comes a scene that holds all in thrall—
A cliff that hangs above a tumultuous sea.
The waves run raging in their sprawl,
Their caps like grapple tossing in misery.
Upon the peak, a figure from whom all flee,
Yet ethereally bound, Hollow cloaked in solemn face.
No mortal he, darkly shapes he, infinity—
His gaze fixed upon each Fae’s stricken face,
As he watches the souls descend to an even darker place.

And dawn betrays them, veiled in ash and pain,
For their once bright torch begins to fade.
The hand once raised to bless Phantasia’s plain
Now trembles weak, her voice a sigh, afraid.
The Fae who followed falters, slow decay—
Their light is smothered, songs turn thin and cold.
In lands of shadow, not a dream is made,
But graves of silence, stories left untold,
And every heart is quenched, and none grow bold.