The acrid tang of the fallen foe
still seared my tongue and stung my nose
when the unseen skulking smooth-skin,
whose greatness of size and strength
outweighed a heritage of skill,
shackled me to defeat and life.
From forbidden captivity I cast my complaint,
not to the kin who mourn my death unknowing
but to the void we traveled, wizard-guided,
in whose depths my words at least find rest.
Dishonor binds and weights my chest
where once my weapons shone with pride.
(Yet my brave sons may rest secure,
for no witness to my disgrace survives
to erase all traces of my tainted line.)
My claws ache to rend furless flesh,
to drown with alien blood my shame
and the voice of my fettered soul that asks:
what more will my cloth-clad captor,
vindictive in victory, require that I endure,
that I might earn the right to die?