Snor'eastercane, Chapter One: Archipelago of Despair

Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the tale
Of wind and water, death and life reborn
Of jealousy and vengeance of the gods
That came to life through the Snor’eastercane.

Plythagoran, the hero of this tale
Took tragedy into unwilling hands
He tried, but failed, to sacrifice his wants
And brought instead the slaughter to our shores.

He was a Trojan soldier, bright and proud
And fought so bravely back behind the walls
Protecting Paris, Helen, and the like
From brave Odysseus’s gleaming hordes.
But then she came to him one fateful night
The oracle of Troy, the pale-faced wretch
And spoke to him of visions she had seen
His body, dashed upon the temple steps
Once brilliant marble, now awash in blood.
She also spoke of archipelagos
A chain of wondrous islands, far away
That could protect and serve him all his life
If he defected Troy, and swam away.
He tried to shake the notion from his mind
Because a traitor’s heart he did not have
Instead possessing all great qualities
Of soldierhood, of brav’ry, and of fight.

“Plythagoron,” she pleaded, “flee from here,
And do not stay another fateful night.
For even now troops ring around the walls
In an attempt to trick all those inside,
And if you stay, you’ll surely not survive.
There is a dinghy propped along the shore,
And in it lies a man, a faméd oar.
He’ll steer you to that archipelago
And you’ll be safe, my love, forevermore.”
And so Plythagoron, a soldier torn
Impelled to leave his army or his life
Ran to the shore to board the weathered boat
That saved his life, but stole his soul for good.

The bounty of the islands filled his needs:
High island lakes provided water clear
Its swaying trees bore sweet, delicious fruits.
Plythagoron could fish all day and night
And still the meat would always grace his plate.
The soldier found companionship as well
Amongst the island fauna; wild dogs
Befriended him and guarded him at night
And in exchange he fed them fish he caught.
Along the island chain, he met the merfolk,
A kindly people living ‘mongst the rocks.
He told them stories of his life in Troy;
In turn, they blessed him with the island magic:
The power to control the wild winds
And keep the salty water far at bay.
And so the archipelago remained
The safest haven he had ever known.

But safe was not enough. Plythagoron,
A man of manly wants, needs, and desires,
Wished to be free of his beautiful cell
And scour the earth once more in search of blood.
He yearned to fight, he yearned to war again.
As lovely as the island chain could be
He knew the gods had cursed him for his choice
To flee his home instead of manning up
And fighting for his people, and his gods.

And so he prayed to them to set him free
For years and years he prayed, to no avail.
He begged for mercy, offered sacrifice
His blood, his children’s blood, were he to bear them
If he could only leave the isles behind.
His prayers, however, went unansweréd;
The gods irate at his most selfish choice
For in addition to the many deaths
Of Trojan women, children, and their men,
The temples of the gods had been defiled
And they had watched their altars burn to ash
Refusing to believe Odysseus’ men
Could be as idiotic as they were.
And so they took their wrath out on their leader
As you, dear reader, may already know;
It took him over ten years to return
To sweet Penelope in Ithaca,
But that’s another story; let’s move on.

Plythagoron did not escape their wrath;
Although a lowly soldier, he had sworn
To guard the temples with his very life,
And when he fled, his sacred duty burned
Just as the temples did without him there.
And so, although they heard Plythag’ron’s prayers
They turned their heads and smiled to themselves,
And left him stranded on the island chain.
His mis’ry fed their anger for so long
That soon their furious memories did fade
As did their mem’ry of Plythagoron.

Three thousand years and more he wasted there
Forgotten by the very gods he fled
The vision of the pale-faced wretched turned true.
Plythagoron was lost, and far past hope
Despite the pleasures of the island chain
He tried to take his life, but all in vain:
The islands granted immortality.
But little did our saddened hero know,
There was one god aware of ‘Goron’s plight -
A god that had the power to restore
Plythagoron’s desire to be free.
God of the Sea, the Earth-Shaker himself,
The tamer of all horses, wet and wild,
Poseidon, underneath the wind and waves,
Still heard Plythagoron’s desperate cries,
And had a plan to satisfy poor Plyth,
That also satisfied the god himself.

One wickedly warm day upon the isles,
Plythagoron awoke to shaking skies
And rumbling rocks along the sandy shores
Of his despiséd archipelago.
He watched, astounded, as the waves conjoined
And rose and formed the shape of watery man
His salty triton poised, his crown on high
Atop his frothy hair. Poseidon crowed:
“Plythagoron, you Trojan traitorous son,
You’ve simmered here under the fateful sun
Three thousand years, to never see the earth,
The salty water your immortal grave.
I offer now to you another choice,
A way to free yourself from this lush isle
And seek the blood that you continually crave.
T’would do you well to listen to my plan.”

The soldier, torn no more, felt his heart swell
At hearing that he could escape the isles
This archipelago of dark despair.
Not waiting to hear of Poseidon’s plan,
He shouted to the towering water god,
“Of course, of course! Poseidon, God of Sea,
Of shaking earth, of pow’r unparalleled,
I bend my knee to you, and to your plan,
For I’ll do anything to leave this place
And plant my feet once more ‘pon solid land.
I can no longer bear my idleness;
I need to fight as I was meant to do,
And join an army brave, from which I’ll not
Defect as I defected once before.
So sing to me, oh god, the choice you give,
And I’ll complete whatever task you wish
In order to fulfill my own desires
And to amend mistakes from long ago.”

Poseidon’s watery beard began to quake,
Guffaws escaping from his quiv’ring mouth:
“Your desperation pleases me, my friend,
Although I doubt it will please you for long.
The plan which I propose requires you
To craft a storm against all natural laws,
And send it swirling, to another isle.
Snor’eastercane, it’s called, and it will cause
Destruction, death, and fear beyond compare.
I would do it myself, but how I fear
I’ve lost the joy that comes with killing men.
Instead, my happiness is gained from you:
For your internal struggle brings me mirth,
To break your code of ethics makes me laugh,
And as I am immortal, I grow bored
So easily these days. What do you say?”

Plythagoron uneas’ly raised his gaze
And stared directly into eyes of foam
That bore into the very core of him.
“Poseidon,” his voice shook, “I must obey.
For I admit, I care more for myself
Than strangers on an island far away.
So tell me where to send this fateful storm
And I’ll complete my mission now, at once.
So fervent’s my desire to be free
That I care not about the ends I cause.”

Again, Poseidon chuckled. “Faithful servant,
The storm you send will crash into the shores
Of New York City, land foreign to you.
But know this of its people: they are rude,
Incompetent, destructive, and unclean.
They will deserve the wrath you set upon them,
Especially those known as “hipster folk.”
They lounge around in plaid, and wear fedoras,
In lofts above a place called Williamsburg.
This Saturday, they’ll have a Brooklyn Flea,
A thing despicable to gods and men,
And it must be destroyéd by your storm.
They also hold a feast called Smorgasburg,
Which worships gluttony instead of gods.
They gorge themselves upon the lowly pig,
Slow bar-b-qued and pulled to tenderness,
And piled in a sandwich high with meat,
Grilled onions and a spicy mustard sauce.
They never once have sacrificed to me,
Or to my brother Zeus, or any god!
How dare they fail Poseidon? For they must
Invite me to their festival of fat,
And yet they haven’t. What is wrong with me?”

The sea god rambled on, oblivious
To trembling Plythagoron below.
“I used to party day and night. And now?
Not one hipster remembers of my might.
I dine on clams alone, most every night,
And dammit, I get tired of those clams!
For once, I’d like to feast upon a pig
And wear suspenders simultaneously.”
At this, Poseidon paused, remembering
His lowly servant and his plan for vengeance,
And coughing awkwardly, he spoke once more.
“Plythagoron, you do the gods a service
By wreaking havoc upon Smorgasburg.
They do us great injustice week by week,
And now they must prepare to pay the price.
Release your merfolk magic on these brutes,
And send to them a storm they’ve never seen
So they can nevermore anger the gods.
Do this, and on my triton and my oath,
I will release you from this island cell
To claim your life once more to be your own,
And soldier on within some unnamed war.”

Plythagoron had tears within his eyes,
A joyful contemplation of his fate
Which once seemed sealed to him, upon the isle,
But now reopened, and for him to choose.
“My gods, I will do what you ask of me.
I am so grateful for this gift you give.
I promise that the hipsters will know pain
That comes from leaving sea gods invite-less.
This Saturday, I will brew up a storm -
Snor’eastercane - to take away their plaid,
Their bacon, loafers, and their stupid hats,
And wash their indie records out to sea.”
With this, Poseidon nodded, and was gone.

Come Saturday, Plythagoron was set.
He called the wild dogs and merfolk near,
And told them of his planned Snor’eastercane,
And how Poseidon, strong and super-jeals,
Wished for destruction of the Brooklyn brood.
The merfolk nodded, dogs barked their consent,
For though they knew they’d miss Plythagoron,
They also feared Poseidon and his wrath,
And heard terrible stories through the years
Of how the hipster folk had done him wrong.
“Plythagoron!” they shouted, “Fear no more!
For we will help you steer Snor’eastercane
Towards the hated hipsters of the ‘Burg.
With all our pow’rs combined, we cannot fail,
And you’ll be free to soldier on, at last.”
And so they called the winds of Eastern lands,
The waters of the South, and Smirnoff Ice,
And whipped them into freezing, frenzied fury,
Until they formed a hurricane of hail.
And then they thrust their storm into the sea
Towards the lands of the unwitting West
To wreak destruction on the plaid-clad clans
Of skinny-jean-obsessed Smorgsburgians,
Who at that very moment, in their lofts,
Were Instagramming food pics to their tumblrs.

Poseidon, overjoyed, appeared once more,
To grant Plythagoron’s desired wish.
“In just a few short hours, I’ll be revenged,
And I’ve your lack of moral code to thank.
So now, Plythagoron, where will you go?
What army will you join? Who will you slay?”
Plythagoron was stumped. “I do not know,
For as you know, I have been long away.
I’m unaware of strife within the world,
And obvs, my Trojan army is long gone.
I’d like to join an army for all time,
And prove my loyalty to it forever,
But truthfully I don’t know where to go.”

Poseidon winked, a gleam within his eye.
“If I may offer you some sweet advice,
It’s been awhile since you’ve seen the earth,
And many, many changes have been made.
There is a world above the world of men
Where warcraft reigns day after bloody day.
It seems to me that maybe there, you’d thrive,
Your thirst for blood may finally be fulfilled.
I know a guy, and I could pull some strings,
If you are interested. What do you say?”
Once more, Plythagoron could not believe
His prayers were being answered by the gods.
“Poseidon, I am in such debt to you.
This world that you describe sounds like a dream.
Please call the guy you know and pull those strings,
For I would love to live within this world,
And spend my days remaining crafting war.”

And so Poseidon called Chris Metzen up,
This nerdy dude he’d met at BlizzCon ‘8.
He told him all about Plythagoron,
And asked if Metzen could do him a solid,
Expansion-packing him to warcraft fame.
Chris Metzen quickly made an avatar
- An avatar to rule all avatars -
And lo! Poseidon with his triton took
Plythagoron to its digital depths.
And now Plythagoron spends all his days
Cavorting as a dwarf named Nematode.
His axe is always sharp, his beard unbrushed,
And he slays dragons to his heart’s content.
He rarely thinks about the outer world,
The homes that he destroyed in Billyburg,
The meals that he disrupted, or the folks
That couldn’t drink a latte for a week.
His World Of Warcraft has become his cell,
A new cell that he’s chosen for all time,
And though he hasn’t tired of it yet,
The day may come when Earth-Shaker himself
Could well appear to him within the game
Dressed as his avatar - an elf named Squeak -
And ask him to unearth another storm
That will destroy the hippies of the earth.

For now, dear readers, count yourselves as safe,
And hearken to the tale I will now tell -
The untold tales of the Snor’eastercane:
An ancient, cranky man shakes in his shoes,
His final claim to fame about to fail;
Five babysitters, set to earn some cash;
Suspicious gard’ners living on a roof;
A geeky teen who steals lawn ornaments;
A man who wants to raise his daughter up,
Instead causing a dang’rous crane to fall;
A stranded mutt who seeks a place to poo;
And trustafarians who need their joe;
The spelling champ, destined to solve a crime;
The princess of Gowanus, peddling shit;
Tea parties on the shore, to blow away;
And lo! - the hipsters, driven mad by storm,
Without a piece of bacon in their reach.