A valley held the mountain's heart,
a cradle once of Forge and Song.
History of peace to compart,
and lore gave way to salted throng.

In flooded streets where hearts do sway,
proud warriors march beneath the foam.
Their hearts chose tides to wash away
the mem'ry of old hearth and home.

The oath once sworn in azure hall,
to silver, steel, and honour's stand,
was severed when the Ocean's squall
saw Elder's blood spilt on the sand.

Yet still the quill in wander's hand,
though ways from gate and surf-worn street,
keeps faith with vows the Wave's demand
and turning tide could not defeat.

Through distant land and lanterned roads,
through snowy hush and weary sky,
a fellowship of few upholds
what once brought pride to Vashnar eye.

No blade is raised in hatred's name,
no tale is penned to scorn or sneer,
for chivalry's enduring flame
still guides through wand'ring's passing years.

Yet pride remains, though paths divide,
for choice is wrought by heart and hand;
they sought their fate beneath the tide,
and truth must walk its chosen strand.

The world rolls on; the Tides decree,
and none can change what tally bore.
The artist walks, unbound, and free,
and loves the lost for evermore.


Penned by my hand on the 10th of Phaestian, in the year 988 AF.