Twas long before the hours of my life.
Fair Shallam turned her ire to the northwest,
and Ashtan likewise marshalled forth her best.
United only in their will for strife,
they shook the earth with anger and their might.
Most citizens rose gladly to this test,
but westward turned the gazes of the rest,
dreaming of the peace of a new life.

Marching down the curving western shore,
the mountains there protect as well as kill.
The light at sunset tranquilly did spill
across their crests, down cliffs and fields and more,
throughout the land to where the hearts were sore.
Men climbed the Vashnars and their grief was still,
for cradled in the palm of lofty hills
a lake and valley lay, serene and pure.

For centuries, the city lay in peace
until a fear erupted from the sky.
Their eyes grew wide, they raised a panicked cry
as Ainghaeal swept upon them for his feast.
He spared neither the greatest nor the least,
but whet his teeth on bones they had supplied
and reveled in the weeping as they died.
The city suffered hard under the beast.

The cry resounded urgent through the air
as nobles felt the dragon's dark contempt.
But elsewhere every aching nerve was spent
upon other worries growing to despair.
Memory grew fickle, dim and frail.
Neither Gods nor mortals were exempt,
but downward was the righteous justice sent.
The Other was uprooted from His lair!

The effort shook the mountains where they stood
and open broke the pass to sweet Cyrene.
That cry again! The dragon lurked unseen,
as soldiers bravely gathered as they would
to right the wrong as quickly as they could.
They stalked the monster in their desperate scheme.
The clash of claw and weapon might redeem -
or leave the city fallen where it stood.

The battle raged without a seeming end.
The soldiers bled and many there were downed -
the city may be riven to the ground!
But finally a cry rose up again -
relief this time to see the people win!
In death, the dragon shuddered without sound.
The panting fighters gathered close around,
upon the streets they'd chosen to defend.

Twas far before the length of all our days.
Story turns to memory and lore.
We can thank these mortals from before
who founded thus the city where we stay,
who stood beside in peace and every fray.
The sunset falls upon the western shore.
It shatters on the hills and is no more.
May the legend linger, so I pray.

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Mayan, in the year 444 AF.