Hello, readers!
Today’s poem is dedicated to the fans of AOne Games’ debut fighting game Omen of Sorrow in that through it, I express my opinion about one of the game’s characters, Vladislav III, and his behavior throughout O of S‘s story. I hope you enjoy it!
Dustin M. Weber
You’re Not a Man at All, Vladislav
April 17, 2021
You’re not a man at all, Vladislav. You’re a petulant, whiny child.
Get that through your boulder of a skull with your hair unkempt and wild,
Your black rubber boots and pants and maroon shirt of like material
Making you look like a superhero, but we all know that’s bull.
Sure, you’re hording dangerous artifacts to make sure that their power
Doesn’t fall into the wrong hands, especially during the darkest hour
Of humanity on Earth, which has arrived in your reality,
No thanks to some nostalgic space demoness, but you’re too blind to see
The evil that’s afoot and what you can do to bring it to an end,
For all you care about is your disease and purging yourself of it, friend,
Not knowing that the answer lies within the Chronicle of Tears,
Which the woman of stone with membranous wings now has, as you surely fear,
And should you’ve looked inside that book, you’d have realized the truth
Behind the ailment that’s plagued you, but alas, you’re too aloof,
Thinking that following the Order’s code to the letter is the key
To keeping the world as you know it safe. Oh, how blind can you be?
Did it ever dawn on to you to look inside that book yourself and realize
That your parents had betrayed the Order’s code just once to keep you alive
And wrote their wish inside the Chronicle, hoping their deed would save you
From your thin blood and help you live the life of a man as you’ve fancied to?
Maybe if you saw so, sir, and stopped to put one and one together,
You’d learn the gravity of your world’s state and ascertain the weather
That’s befallen upon you and everyone else, including those few who care
About your narcissistic, ungrateful hide, like Erzsébet over there,
Who may’ve misunderstood the goal of the Order and in its name
Committed unspeakable acts to serve you and your cause, but all the same
Served you loyally from start to end, even after she suspected you
Of lying about your faction’s mission and made you all black and blue,
Only to realize her own error of judgment and saved your life
By sacrificing her own immortality so you could face the strife
Of a world gone topsy-turvy by yourself, for many a foe
Have you made while you searched for a cure for your thin-blooded woe.
Adam will never forgive you, I’m sure, for hiring his “father” Frankenstein,
Only to kill him in the end for doing his job once his behind
Realized what—nay, whom—you made him create, and all to heal you,
And yet, you slew him to “save his mind?” Yeah…that’s crock through and through.
The way you treated Adam afterwards, too, made me sick more than you’ll know,
Calling him a “monster” each chance you got, for he was no man to you, “bro,”
Though he had more heart than you’ve ever had or will ever have by and far
And had more backbone to boot ‘til at long last, he succumbed to his scars—
The scars you made upon his soul, and right when he received life, too.
Then there’s the case of Quasimodo. Really, Vlad…what’s wrong with you?
Yes, he lost the Chronicle to Radagonda despite the promise he’d made
To his lost love Esmerelda, but like a child, you never forgave
Him, despite him not being one of your Order officially,
And long after he’d lost that cursed book, a child you had to be,
Throwing a tantrum in his face for his folly, you fang-faced brat,
And yet, you accused him of being childish during your violent spat
Of keeping the book for his deceased love, only to lose it how he did,
Where it would’ve done nothing for him or anyone else, you spiteful kid.
I’m proud of the guts he at last showed you, though for him, ‘twas all too late,
And no thanks to your Maxwell Sheffield-esque fit of fury, he’d meet his fate.
To think…another noble soul you’d slain, and one with no powers of his own,
Save for his longevity, with which he used to work his fingers to the bone
And learn engineering to keep his mind sharp and almost as keen as his heart—
Both of which he’d far more than you’ll ever know. Spine, too, though it didn’t start
To truly develop ‘til you dare crossed his path and out of privilege had your way
With his life, you puerile fiend! Hope you’re proud of yourself for ruling that day.
Even Radagonda was “childish” to you for wanting to overthrow
Thalessa ‘fore she reshaped the world yet again for her dead god, much to our woe,
And with her knowledge of the Invisible Queen, for she’s felt her wrath directly,
She’s learned that the Chronicle, in one way or another, holds the key
To stopping her reign of terror and putting her in her place once and for all,
Driving her lot at last extinct so that humanity will be saved from its fall
At her hands and know what peace could well be with chaos put once more at bay,
But no! The gargoyle’s hope was but a joke to you, and there was no way
You’d listen to her in the slightest, even if doing so just may have led
You to reversing your blood-based fate. Now you, stubborn fool, are dead,
Your thin blood coating Radagonda’s claws after she tried to knock some sense
Into your stone brain since words wouldn’t work on you, you were so damn dense.
Alas, Vlad, you could’ve been a hero and a true man, had you just opened up
Your ears, eyes, and mind and shut your mouth and stopped yapping like a rabid pup.
You could’ve died like a man, too, as you’d wished, had Thalessa vanquished as she had
Like so many others before and after you, but that’s not to be, “Count” Vlad,
Hence you died like the monster you are, and the worst kind of monster one can be:
A spoiled blueblood of ill temperament and great power—the worst anyone can see.
Alas, I’ve no sympathy to waste on you, as you’ve doomed yourself to your demise.
Blame it all on AOne Games for writing your tale as such, if you won’t hear my sighs,
But know you this, Vladislav III: Few shall miss you for your immaturity.
You chose your own path towards self-destruction, ruining others’ lives for all to see
In the process, much to my dismay and I’m sure others’, too, you sorry whelp.
Good riddance, then, you poor man’s Dracula. May your legend stay on the shelf.
*****
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