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On the eve of a bleak November an event occurred to remember, a King and sword, sitting in dream over their reward.’Bad news sire’ a Jester mumbles, rousing the King’s ire ’twas not one but many in truth’ the Jester continued, not one, but many cups of Youth. Happiness and glee take their flee and anger proclaims itself the king of kings. ‘What complications has this wrought?’ Answers were all the King sought yet the Cup sat and stared to provoke a sole thought. Choice. Alas, there will be no rejoice. Seven cups all of gold, whispers warn death is what they hath foretold.

‘An irony is it not?’ A burly Commander rasped his power sapped from battles spoken in what thought to only be lores, could his fate be as yours? ‘I have seven cups of youth this in truth is grand, unless there is foul play I suspect at hand’ the King said in truth, not one, but many cups of youth. ‘Seven cups of Youth six more then once thought if suspicions hold true this may all be for nought’ the Commander thought aloud. ‘A trickster sire and if he was as me the situation may be dire’ the Jester proclaimed. ‘Poison my lord Poison’ the Commander explained.

Quietly the Cup sat, not a noise, not a rap nor a tat. Rustling in his throne, a nearby maiden let out a laugh and then a moan. Having fallen dead an ill fated reverberation sent a wave of dread, another laugh, another moan, it had clearly spread. In awe he sits, his mouth agape finally the words escaped. ‘What is the meaning of this? Has anyone else sipped from this cup?’ It was an abrupt wake up, the words danced just near of truth, the waters briefly ripple within the seven cups of youth. ‘No my lord not a single drop’ the Jester said, the laughing did not stop.

‘A winters breeze in summertime, this Jester jests of crime’ the Sword whispered to the King, ‘kill him’ the Sword continued to sing. Three rings, nothing less, nothing more. ‘Enter my chamber door’ the King implored. A commoner with a smile held strong, even the God’s laughed, something was wrong. ‘Laughing Milord, the dead are laughing’ he rasped with little more, more laughing came from outside the door. ‘Drink from the cup, speak up! Speak up! The traitors will fall where they stand, your time is at hand, endless prosperity awaits! Death is all ye need sate!’ The Sword swore with conviction, what it speaks is contradiction.