OH, WESTFORT!

“Oh Westfort” 

 As spoken aloud in the plazas, salons, factories, and gutters of the city 

"Oh Westfort, crown of glass and soot, 

Where towers gleam like cut diamonds 

And windows catch the sun like coins in a miser’s fist. 

 Oh Westfort, where the stacks rise high— 

Black spines of industry, 

Breathing smoke like prayers too filthy for the gods.

 Above us still, the stars remain, 

Cold and sharp and unbought, 

Watching as engines scream and pistons bow. 

Beneath us yawns the canyon-river, 

The undercut vein of the city, 

Where docks cling to stone ribs 

And lanterns float like drowned constellations. 

 Oh Westfort, parade of silk and steel, 

Where nobles glide in velvet splendor, 

Perfumed, jeweled, untouched by rust, 

Speaking softly of progress and destiny. 

 And last—at last— The hands that bled the city into being: 

The workers in oil-stained coats, 

The breathless, the bent, the spent, 

Who built the towers, fed the fires, 

And are thanked only by tomorrow’s whistle. 

Oh Westfort, beautiful and cruel, 

You eat us all in time— 

But tonight, let us sing." 

 Traditionally, the poem must be recited without pause, eyes open, no embellishment, no deviation. Any change in cadence, wording, or emphasis is considered heresy… unless the audience prefers it. 

FROM THE WESTFORT GAZETTE

Blood on the Verses: Another “Oh Westfort” Poet Found Dead

WEST DOCK WARD — City Watch officials confirmed last night the discovery of Irren Vale, age 42, a once-favored “Oh Westfort” poet, found drowned in the Canyon River beneath Pier Nine. His throat had been cut after death, a signature increasingly associated with poet-on-poet killings.

Vale had fallen from noble favor three years ago, following accusations of “emotional dullness” and “aging voice fatigue.”

This marks the fifth poet death this season, all tied to the city’s most prestigious—and most dangerous—spoken ritual.

A POEM WORTH KILLING FOR

The recitation of Oh Westfort has long been a cornerstone of noble culture. Houses compete fiercely to sponsor the most celebrated voice, dressing their poets in elaborate uniforms, cosmetic augments, throat oils, and mechanical breath-rigs to ensure flawless delivery.

“It’s not about poetry,” said one anonymous tailor employed by House Vellorin. “It’s about ownership. The poem doesn’t belong to the city—it belongs to whoever sounds best saying it.”

SABOTAGE IS EXPECTED. MURDER IS… OVERLOOKED.

Former poets describe a brutal ecosystem:

• Poisoned vocal tonics
• Razor-thread hidden in scarves
• Paid hecklers trained to cough during key lines
• Acid vapors released backstage to scar lungs

The City Watch officially denies any policy of non-intervention, though no noble-backed poet has ever been successfully prosecuted.

CAST ASIDE LIKE BROKEN INSTRUMENTS

When poets age—when their voices crack, lungs fail, or their faces no longer please—their patrons withdraw support overnight. Many are expelled from noble districts, left to beg, drink, or sell fragments of the poem illegally in alleyways.

“It’s worse than dying,” said a former reciter known only as Bell-Throat. “Because the poem keeps going without you.”

WHAT COMES NEXT?

Rumors swirl that a new prodigy, barely seventeen, has emerged under House Korravel—already styled, trained, and insured.

City officials remind citizens that unauthorized recitation of Oh Westfort remains punishable by fine, imprisonment, or “corrective labor.”

Meanwhile, the poem will be spoken again tonight.

As always.