Sgrios’s Scar
by: Lybrea

    Once while I was questing solo, when I took a chore from Baldo,
To rid Oren, by tomorrow, of the pirates at the nearby bar.
    Now, the details, they are shoddy—I blame the Tulsi from Mehadi—
      My items ripped from my body, my body that fell after a spar.
Nyarlathotep greeted me, growling with his voice bizarre,
            “You must leave with Sgrios’s scar.”

    Every time his words would chill me, his dead gaze would always still me,
And I remain silent until we admit he has been right thus far.
    Ne’er has an aisling descended, once their life was quickly ended,
    Without the mark of death mended—mended by Sgrios’s scar—
But maybe I can talk my way out of tradition older than stars,
            And I can leave without a scar.

   Partly brought on by conceit, ignoring my most certain defeat,
I decided to entreat my face too beautiful to mar;
    “If we reflect, on introspection, you will find that I’m perfection,
    So if there is no objection, I will take my leave unmarred.”
Yet Nyarlathotep’s duty would not let me leave unscarred,
            “You must leave with Sgrios’s scar.”

    My ego took a mighty blow, though I suppose I should have known,
That Chadul’s servant’s preferred beau would look old, wrinkled, and charred.
    So I floated above the floor, cross-legged, transparent, and looking bored,
    Not content to be ignored in my quest to remain unmarred,
I spoke out to keep the door of possibility ajar,
            “I do not deserve a scar.

    Please, hear me out,” I implored, “I’ve faced the ants in deep Andor,
Spent moons searching for Veltain Ore, and found where all the creants are;
    Dark Clerics flee my presence, I have harnessed fire essence,
    I mastered all four elements; srad, sal, creag, and athar,
And crushed the demon librarian who stole my ring and cast sal gar.
           I did all that and got no scar.”

    Now, true enough, without me trying, none of that involved me dying,
And the truth that’s underlying is heroing’s not that hard.
    “Surely,” said I, “You must agree that being scarred is not for me.
      Let me leave then I will see your regards get to Baltasar.”
Nyarlathotep snarled the only words he’d spoke so far,
            “You must leave with Sgrios’s scar.”

    If I could I would have sighed—breathing is hard for those who’ve died— Instead, annoyed, I rolled my eyes, but his answer was on par.
    I’d come to view his repetition—with my natural suspicion,
    That my heroic exposition would not get me very far—
Was little more than childish game played by the immortal guard,
            And regardless if I got a scar.

    Time to change my strategy, no more fishing for flattery,
No more heroic analogies meant to set the bar.
    Deoch’s flame of inspiration, help me in my arbitration,
    Lead me in this conversation from his repetitive repertoire,
And I swear I will sing your praises to aislings near and far.
           …I really do not want a scar.

    Maybe if I play his game, he will give me my acclaim,
If I simply drop the names of all the famous wizards there are.
    After all, behind those rocks, I speak with Gramail and Deoch,
    —With death assisted by succubus locks—As our gods are not that far.
But not just anyone can speak to Magic and Life’s avatars.
            I’m too important for a scar.

    “Perhaps I’m the libertine of the Who’s Who of wizarding,
But I’ve tailored stollers with Jean while we spoke of the eight-pointed star.
    My visage cures the malaise of the royal librarian, Blaise,
    Also the experiment-crazed, gauntlet-obsessed, grouchy, old Dar.
And that one in Undine that teaches all the gars.
            They would not give me a scar.

    I have spent countless hours, gathering all types of flowers,
For Cian to study the powers of botany near and far,
    And though it may sound a fable, one night while in Abel,
    I drank Logan under the table. A feat, admittedly, not hard.”
Nyarlathotep was unimpressed by being friends with stars,
            “You must leave with Sgrios’s scar.”

    How those words made me shudder, I gave my wings a tiny flutter,
As Nyarlathotep uttered his monotonous repertoire.
    Then, my heart began it’s sinking, as I took myself to thinking
    Of all the wine that I’ll be drinking to drown my embarrassed regards.
For not a single one of my brilliant plans has worked thus far.
            One more chance to avoid a scar.

    I can’t use my pretty face, my heroic tales have no place,
Nor my friends of legend efface his desire to see me scarred;
    Intelligence of enchanters often fail nuances of banter,
    I’ll have to resort to manners if I wish to leave unmarred.
Quite unlike me, but maybe simple politeness will go far,
            “Please, oh please, could we skip this scar?”

    Despite my patience, tried and drained—Nothing ventured, nothing gained—
I prayed my plea not be in vain to the Gods both near and far.
    I smirked with certain expertise—one fact set my mind at ease—
    No one should deny a ‘please’, no matter what rude monster they are.
Nyarlathotep remained the unmoved, unmerciful vanguard.
            “You must leave with Sgrios’s scar.”

    “You have no heart!” I did glower, “Did you think that I would cower?
I believe your trip of power borders tyranny and bizarre!
     The choice is yours,” I erupted, “This whole system is corrupted.
And before I’m interrupted tell me what your requirements are.
Tell me how an aisling can descend from here unmarred!
            Tell me how I avoid a scar!”

    A curse of mine since I was young, to not leave snarky thoughts unsung.
A smarter wizard would hold their tongue before their anger went too far.
    It was then we both repeated—when I realized I was defeated,
    I let my voice get loud and heated—a crack in my sanity jarred,
As I began to wonder if these were the only words there are.
            “You must leave with Sgrios’s scar.”

    “Fine! You win!” I started yelling, “I give up! I’m done rebelling!
There’s more than you I find compelling, like the properties of athar!
    Leave me to go to Rucesion, far from your morbid obsession!
    Take your ink and mark my legend! What a horrid monster you are!”
What a horrid monster to teach a lesson, no matter how hard;
            No one escapes Sgrios’s scar.

    Alive once more, I caught my breath and made my way outside Mileth,
To the white marble temple with bright reputation near and far;
    Ignore the annoyance masking in the warm compassion basking,
    As I stumbled inside asking for the best of prayers that there are;
The most repeated words that priests of Glioca hear, by far,
            “Please, could you remove my scar?”