Responding to complaints of muddy footprints and foul gases West of the
Gypsy wagon park in Manusha, I happened across a place which inspired
the following poem...

A tree-lined pathway marks the gate
Into the weed-choked, watery fen
Where the mystic Nixie's fate
Is bound to the creatures deep within.
Round about the Gypsies settle
In painted wagons to ply their trade.
Ringed in yew and thick with nettle,
In stagnant waters the mangroves wade.
Slimy slug-fish slog along,
Meandering through the murky mire.
Noxious winds, enchanted with the songs
Of frogs who to great art aspire,
Lap the oft forsaken graves
Of the fallen and forlorn
Like putrid and lethargic waves.
In this marsh despair was born.
A child, sweet as clover honey
Met with some misfortune here.
As a babe: delightful and sunny,
But with age did joy disappear.

A black stone tower rises from the stench
And marks the Lord's domain.
Dusty and aging opulence,
All that of His empire remains.
Filled with Salamandrin guards
And mages wielding deadly fire
Like a squire wields his swords:
Excited by new skills acquired.
The Lady here imparted knowledge
Of the Elemental arts;
Inscribing arcane runes, alleged
To stop the beating of the heart.
The tower holds a mystery,
In the garden is the gate
To underwater secrecy
And the Glubbian's new fate.
Beneath the surface tales unfold
Of Chiada and the Lord,
Above the dread mosquitoes drone,
The breeze breathes not a word.


Penned by my hand on the 23rd of Lupar, in the year 395 AF.