As Bar, Persephony, and their brethren,
Were herded off to a captive’s prison,
The smith breathed deep, and walked to sea,
Weeping the pain of victory,
Where past the shore, in ocean’s dim,
Thousands of mer-hands saluted him.
Bigger than men, two times again,
With ornate armor crusted on them,
That covered their chests, and their breasts, and their arms,
Crafted with magic to keep them from harm.
Some had fine bows, made of strung gut,
Some had short lances, sharpened to cut,
Some had hooked grapples, of kelp and coral,
And all wore bright helms, with horns of goral.
Then through the merfolk, grander, sorrier,
Swam to blacksmith, their greatest warrior.
As this Mermaid neared, smiling gravely,
Smith remembered, peering bravely,
A face not seen in many years,
And then thought “No! Could she be here?”
Warrior’s hand, reached for the smith,
Removing a gauntlet of shells, and forthwith,
Grasping his elbow and shoulders in grip,
As was the tradition of fellowship.
“I see that you are much in need,
Of me and my kin, whom I here lead,
To battle, the giant, in every sector,
And replace the balance, and free the protector.
The smith looked shocked. “It is the grave maid!”
His stunned stupid stare, changing from brave.
Under her helm the maid smiled glee.
“I am Couragah, and yes smith, you know me!
For you, Vitiguph, I have a surprise:
The princess daughters, are still alive!