An interview with the former caretaker of the Lake Muurn Lighthouse
yeilded this information regarding one of Cyrene's landmark edifices...

The Lighthouse

The blue lake waters, icy cold,
Fed from mountain snows,
Surround a rocky island where
If you chance to go,
A lighthouse stands against the fog
And shines its warning beam
O'er the Muurn Lake waters deep,
Wreathed in alpine steam.
Biagio, a shady chap,
Who works the graveyard shift,
Leans upon his shovel while
Nostalgia gradually drifts
Across his dirty face, so wan,
His lips so pale and thin;
As he recounts the awful day
The scrags came tunnelling in.
"Once, I watched the lighthouse flame,"
He mentions with a sneer.
The eerie light of pale green eyes
Reveals his obvious fear.
"But now that basement's full of things
That I'd not rather see."
And having met those sinister scrags
You can take it straight from me:
Their bulbous noses, limp black hair
And nasty greenish skin
Makes me wish that I'd thought twice
Before I entered in.
They excrete a gaseous aura,
May your senses be aware,
From some foul glands; a noxious smell
That clings to clothes and hair.
Biagio has left his post
As tender of the light,
But someone does the daily task
And climbs the wooden flight
Of stairs that wind up to the top
Where the flame still burns.
And to that soul I doff my hat;
Your wages, you have earned!
To the Island, I still go -
My visits are discrete.
For scrag or no, the rooftop view
Is quite a pleasant treat.



Penned by my hand on the 25th of Phaestian, in the year 396 AF.