There once was a tash'la named Maelgor,
Whose title grew longer and longer.
An Ambassador grand,
With a scythe in his hand,
And apparently built like a boulder.
They called him Prodigious with pride,
Though nobody quite knew just why.
Was it wisdom? His might?
His great height in a fight?
"No. Rock," said the crowd. "You're just wide."
The Prodigious Rock strode through Ashtan,
With a terribly serious plan:
Study Chaos and lore,
Then study some more,
Then ask Ulvin what none understand.
He questioned the Knights about Aster,
Which somehow produced a disaster.
"There's mist underground,
And the dead wander 'round-"
Maelgor said, "I should research this faster."
He spoke about oaths and the Twelve,
And pulled several books from the shelves.
"There's a mind-eater too."
Shri said, "What will you do?"
"Find seventeen more books myself."
Seven fingers of steel on his hand,
A Soldier of Ruin so grand.
Yet scholars all know,
Wherever he'll go,
There's one thing no foe can withstand:
Not shadow, nor scythe, nor his lore,
Nor the Chaos he claims to adore.
When arguments knock,
They meet only Rock-
Prodigious. And researching more.

Penned by my hand on the 15th of Daedalan, in the year 1016 AF.