The King stood on the lofty tower,
Iasius, son of fathers proud,

His feathers whistling in the wind,
his countenance as grim as stone;

A towering city at his feet
on mountainside atop the world;

What worries weighed upon his heart
or came like demons in the night?

His son, an invalid, so pale
and dreams of music sad and wan.

His daughter gone, to seek her fame
With ivory helm, and sword aflame!

Or Tritons, sons of ocean floor
with spears intent upon his doom;

From ruined Scyros, swift they came
on foaming wave, on gilded shells;

His archers brave, the Tritons fierce
they fought and died upon the shore;

Both sides convinced - their foes mere beasts!
What matter now? He did not say.

His thoughtful eyes did oft survey
his kingdom from this dizzying aer',

Above all beings, save for one,
the Skylord, on his lofty throne.

Lord Vastar's Isle lay spread below,
its wooded hills, its waters clear,

And through the clouds, the sparkling view
of all creation, crag and creek;

While Lady Sol caressed the spires
of Mortalkind that glittered there.

Perhaps he saw a churchly choir
or valiant Mark upon a steed;

A Bard composing on a harp,
or Sylvan, dreaming in a tree,

Or armies massed upon the plain,
their lances raised! To war! To war!

Iasius stood upon the peak,
a frown upon his lofty brow;

Unmoving in the whistling wind.
What thoughts had he? He did not say.


Penned by my hand on the 5th of Sarapin, in the year 539 AF.