The warrior poets of the Syr were, without doubt, the finest poets that have ever lived. They were also pretty good warriors. The weapons they bore for purely ceremonial purposes; you have no need for a sword when you are a true warrior poet. No, you simply wait as your enemy assembles across the field. You wait as they amass; hundreds – thousands, even, against one. You wait until they stand ready to advance upon you, to annihilate you for no reason other than fear of your existence, and then you sing.
You sing of your people burned from the earth in hatred. You sing of the dew-laden grass of your homeland that you shall never again feel beneath your feet. You sing of your lost love. You sing of dreams. You sing of happy days forgotten, of sadnesses remembered. You sing of cool lakes in the sunshine, of warm fires in the winter. You sing of the improbability of rain, and the impossibility of mountains. You sing.
And as one, they fall on their swords.
The song changes as the years pass, for the Syr have no writing. The song changes as each of the Syr succumbs to age, taking with just a little more of their language. This fuels their weapons of sorrow like never before.
She stands, at last, singing alone. She sings of being the last of her kind. She sings of how this shall be her last song. She sings of how, when her lips stop, the song shall be carried off by the winds, unheard forever more. She sings of how her victims shall be the very last to hear her song, and they shall not survive to tell of it. She sings of how her song shall die with them, and they are moved, and their hearts break all the more, that they might not carry it with them; that they might not take it home to their wives, their children, their parents and friends. Even knowing the terrible price of hearing it; they would gladly annihilate everyone they’ve ever loved, just that the song might go on. And this desire almost saves them, but in the end she stands, singing softly over their prone forms.
And then she sings herself to sleep.