The Curse of Buuth

The story of Buuth the Terrible, the Murderqueen, who took the axe to her own children and her own realm and passed into legend as the most bloodthirsty Alpha in all of Eesyar Valley.

Praise and laurels for the Alpha-kings and their knights

For the War-packs of Eesloss, in generations past,

Those great soldiers and warriors whose honors are well won.

Of Uúchjatho, grand Beta and warrior mother,

Of the honoured hold-brothers, Coldstones called,

Brought from the bosom of the mountain, fierce fighters

From whose doughty company, legends arise

In stout-hearted Eesyar, in blazing bright caverns,

In stony halls filled with torches, braziers burning like suns,

Coldstones were warmed, tested and tempered to steel

Forged and fastened, to the laws of the Snowfathers,

Those words etched in Black-glass, harder than iron,

Armored warriors with courage unwavering.

 

On the shores of the River Ohgadie, white as the snow

Frothing and rushing, speeding by, leaving behind skarl,

Abandoning our troubles, quitting the feuds of our race,

Did the Coldstones reside, like riverstones on the shore.

From the edges of that great river, with water flowing,

Did the warrior-mother Uúchjatho bear the spear-wielder,

Beloved daughter Uútvarjatho, legendary warrior of Eesyar.

Queenly warrior, well-born champion was Uútvarjatho,

Guardian of the Valley reaches, the southern inlet yawning,

Sentinel in the tower, proud sponsor of the Alphas country,

And eloquent amongst Eeskarl, hard-handed race,

Uútvarjatho bore no scare or disgrace, no stain on her honor

No heroine was more virtuous, nor of hotter ardor

From the womb of warriors was Uútvarjatho brought forth,

Along the shores of the Ohgadie, in gaudy halls of earth

In the valley-hold, bled crimson with the sorrow of skarl

With spear in hand and love in heart, she claimed her right

And saved all of Eesyar from that which haunted it,

The Murder-queen of Taang, Buúth the Terrible

 

Never was there a greater opposite, a contrast stronger

Than that of noble Uútvarjatho, and Buúth, Alpha-queen

For Buúth was black of soul, crooked-hearted and headed,

And none could know her mind, that fearful maze,

Where plots were invented, enemies contrived

A fierce and proud warrior, imprisoned in that muddle

No skarl could speak to Buúth, no voice could reach her.

Darkened eyes, teeth that bit any hand held to help

She was far off, in foreign lands to the east,

Where sorrow and anguish held her still,

Princess-soldier of Zikutur, proud fighter and mother,

Coward-bound to her own broken mirror mind,

Axe-wielding, eyes glowing with hot hate-blood,

Barbarian-warrior, unequaled in all the eastern countries,

Buúth had no match, not even her iron-clad husband

Could best her in battle, violent skill prevailing,

But deftness was great, ambition waning

And Buúth, ever watchful, while her puppet passed as Alpha

 

So did the house of Taang rule the valley-hold

Under wise and iron hand, Aukatang in mail-bound

Broke the sword of Athojaath, old and unworthy

So did the claim fall to the house of Taang, suddenly

Unprepared was the new and proud Aukatang

For the wrath of his brood-mother, beloved mate Buúth

To three sons did Buúth give birth, Alpha-children

Princely pups, noble young skarl of warrior bearing

Kallhantaang, young and brash, full of vitality

Imbaómtaang, warrior grand, skilled with the sword

And Khantaang, a vision of the Snowfathers returned

But Buúth would not suffer a weak heir to pass,

No languorous son, no sluggish prince would she endure

Tested like blacksmiths steel, matured like fleschrund wine

Were the sons of Taang, but no feat would satisfy,

No victory would quench, their mother’s expectations,

No languid son of Taang would rule as Alpha,

Before Buúth had wrung their weakness from them,

Lashed and bounden were the young skarl, patience waned,

Injustice at their torment, injuries growing,

The sons of Taang grew to hate their mother,

Opposing their offender, confronting Buúth,

They stood to her and spoke to her thus;

“Your trials are tricks; your tests are misery,

You burden us, strike us and lay on us toil,

You are blind to our suffering, obeyed silently,

Those who you should love, your sons,

Are in agony under the whip, you yourself wield,

Why then, are you never satisfied? Never fulfilled?

What do you seek to gain, by granting us agony?

By giving as our birthright, a life of tribulation,

A childhood of burning distress, never to be stifled,

What could drive you, to be an unkind jailor?

When we are in need of a mother?”

But Buúth grew livid, enraged to wrath,

At their cheek, given insolently, without respect

No tribute did they give, to all her sacrifices,

Made for their sake, foolish upstarts,

Author's Note

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