They carried on--their masks coin bound, their poisons quick, their daggers sharp--the beat of their drums and lyrical guitars swaying bodies in rhythm to deals made in the dark.
Assassins of beauty and grace in the honest lines of smiling faces, they sweep into balls and creep into chambers leaving nothing but ghosts of their misdeeds screaming of plunder.
And always they carry on--moving forward to the next town--to another series of faces enraptured by the mystic of their wagons and temporarily relieved to be free of the sins of their crown.
Their feet never rest, the cloud of Dust that trails behind them never tires--they never hunger for more than their needs, though their hidden treasures rattle with gold and sapphire.
They sing into the night, haunting melodies licked by flames, of days gone by so their history remains. They know not when, if ever, they'll settle, for they are born Travelers and their dead rest along weary roads where their bones rattle.
But trust them not unless you have the right price, for though they have mastered the cunning their morals can not be deprived, and they will pay retribute to the deceivers of the highest of crimes.
Hear them coming.
Know their sound.
Find them if you dare.
And leave them not, if you must, when they fade, once again into thin air.
Or your voice shall remain displaced in the depths of unending hollows.
Where only the lonely ones roam.
Assassins of beauty and grace in the honest lines of smiling faces, they sweep into balls and creep into chambers leaving nothing but ghosts of their misdeeds screaming of plunder.
And always they carry on--moving forward to the next town--to another series of faces enraptured by the mystic of their wagons and temporarily relieved to be free of the sins of their crown.
Their feet never rest, the cloud of Dust that trails behind them never tires--they never hunger for more than their needs, though their hidden treasures rattle with gold and sapphire.
They sing into the night, haunting melodies licked by flames, of days gone by so their history remains. They know not when, if ever, they'll settle, for they are born Travelers and their dead rest along weary roads where their bones rattle.
But trust them not unless you have the right price, for though they have mastered the cunning their morals can not be deprived, and they will pay retribute to the deceivers of the highest of crimes.
Hear them coming.
Know their sound.
Find them if you dare.
And leave them not, if you must, when they fade, once again into thin air.
Or your voice shall remain displaced in the depths of unending hollows.
Where only the lonely ones roam.
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