Beneath the crude archway, on weary feet
I plod ever North through the nose-numbing sleet.
The hard-packed clay of the path below
Sleeps 'neath a coverlet of new-fallen snow.
To the east, the shop of a shaman doth sit
Wreathed in smoke that rises from a cauldron-pit.
For potion ingredients the shaman would ask.
But which, he won't say. That is my task.

Before me, a monument cast in grey stone
Stands at the crossroads, and to it I go.
A woman, unnamed, holds tight to her breast
Two granite infants, their conception unblessed.
Maya is she, and mankind's brave mother.
Humans birthed of an Aldar. A being, the other
Who, like a victor reaps his dead foes' gold,
Tore innocence from her and left her cold.

In the northwest corner resides a small shrine
Raised on the tundra, for those with a mind
To honor the blessings of the Holy Three:
Callisto the Father, the Creator, Mother Sinope.
To the east, I divine many stables for horses
Who canter and gallop. But stray from their courses?
No, they'll not fall! For these mighty steeds
Are bred for the battle, for warriors in need.

The heart of the village is the coziest spot
Where the Yriluawe blood flows red and hot,
Where tremendous warriors, black hair tied back,
Keep earnest vigil over fire-pit and shack.
Vegetables flow from the garden nearby
To nourish the villagers. And here wander I
To seek out the Chieftess who wants to renew
Her vows to her people, with some mysterious brew.

If your travels bring you to Sapience' North tip,
I suggest that you visit. It's well worth the trip.

Penned by my hand on the 20th of Valnuary, in the year 384 AF.