Skidmarks, they used to say,
Would in fierce anger slay.
Each day he got away.
The proud Xoran said, "Nay,
No longer I'll obey.
You cannot make me pray."
Because Justice will end his day.

His dues will, one day, be paid
In the chaos of a raid.
On the blood soaked ground he laid
By the quick slash of a blade.
To silence, his world did fade.
Dead, in the Xoran's dark shade,
And Justice was finally made.

He lies under the cold hard ground,
Decaying beneath a mossy mound
Where no mortal is ever found.
Unable to whimper a sound,
His limbs ever so tightly bound,
Ensnaring the barbaric hound
Because Justice will always rebound.

Penned by my hand on the 11th of Scarlatan, in the year 542 AF.