The Diary of Edgar Allan Probe

The Templar:

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I wandered meek and leery,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a kreeing,
As of some one gently skreeling, skreeling at my main base door.
`'Tis some executor,' I muttered, `scratching at my main base door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was on the map Scrap Station,
And each separate fine libation wrought its stain upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my clumps surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Fenix -
For the rare and radiant zealot whom the angels named Fenix -
Dragoon here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain wailing of each yellow warpgate
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the pulsing of my core, I stood repeating
`'Tis some zealot entreating entrance at my main base door -
Some executor entreating entrance at my main’s front door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Zerg,' said I, `or Terran, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was mining, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no Protoss ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered words, `PsiStorm!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `PsiStorm!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my volts within me burning,
Soon again I heard a scratching somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my pylon’s lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis Automaton 2000 and nothing more!'

Down then I tore the warpgate, when, with many a flirt and shake,
In there stepped a stately templar of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, drifted above my main base floor -
Perched beside a core of cybers just above my main base floor -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this white templar beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient templar wandering from the scrap station -
Tell me what thy appelation is on the map’s scrap ridden shore!'
Quoth the templar, `Tassadar.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly thing to hear discourse so plainly,
Though his answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living protoss being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing man above his main base -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his main base floor,
With such name as `Tassadar.'

But the templar, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends I’ve known before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
The psychic said, `Mine some more.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Research storm."'

But the templar still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a bright archive in front of him and main base door;
Then, with early forge spinning, I betook myself to willing
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous ‘toss of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous ‘toss of yore
Meant in croaking `Research storm.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the ‘toss whose fiery eyes now burned into my robotic core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the nexus’ pulsing lining that the chronoboost gloated o'er,
But whose fervent violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
It shall press, ah, Psychic Storm!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by mutalisks whose wing-beats tinkled on the foetid air.
`Wretch,' I cried, `Zeratul hath lent thee - by these dark shrines he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of kheydarin!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this amulet!'
Quoth the templar, `Research storm.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm on planet Char? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the templar, `Instant Storms.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that Aiur we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, except the distant Kerrigan,
It shall wield a fated necklace, which the angels named kheydarin -
Clasp a rare and rich amulet, which the angels named kheydarin?'
Quoth the templar, `Instant Storms.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, ‘toss or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the map Scrap Station’s shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the templar, `Zergling Swarms.'

And the templar, never flitting, still is drifting, still is drifting,
On the foetid air of Scrap Station just above my main base floor;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
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