Oh no!
Here we go again!
Some nobody Ashtani
Rhymes at our Father Heren'

Who are you, young Ashuran, and
pray tell, what have you done?
Sit down in your chair, Kohai,
and get roasted by Mhaldor's son.

Your invective is defective,
Your terrible grammar I abhor.
Your rhyme is just as rancid
As a Hashani back alley whore

I'll dissect this silly notion
That Ashtan's the bastion of the free
A man is no less a slave because his
master is elected by he
who worships the realm of madness
and uses 'freedom' as a front
to enslave himself and others
in a selfish, meaningless stunt.

Your ignorance is on parade, Mystara
It's history's not-so-big surprise
That Ashtan's use of freedom
Is just one Chaotic lie.
But wallow in your ignorance, child.
You seem to enjoy the filth
that comes with devotion to tolerance,
an ideology that's like a sylph.

And you call one battle a victory?
It takes more than an icon's fall
To kill the pride of a Mhaldorian
Whose life is devoted to the call
Of something greater than the 'freedom'
to pen bad poetry like you do.
But you have to be known for something, and
I've not met anyone that knows about you

You call out one of Mhaldor's clergymen,
With some rhymes that're worse than lame.
Tell me, what even qualifies you
To dare to speak his name?
He's been called 'Tyrannus', 'Messiah',
That's Herenicus Coldraven!
Father of the Congregation and
To all the Mhaldorian nation.

And now you've got Batista on your case,
That's 'Sir Vallah' - you'd better pray,
That you don't cross my path, child,
Or you'll become a vivictim that same day.
Or maybe you'll just be cut from sternum
And split across your nether regions
Disemboweled by this Knight of Evil,
An unholy child of the Aegeans.

And you say that you can't hear?
Take some hawthorn for those ears!
Poetry's all you'll be composing
'cause it sure won't be your fear,
With an Infernal on your tail
And a Naga close behind,
Beckoned by a Baalzadeen,
And crushed by an Ebon's mind.

See, you had to make this personal,
Til now poetry was just a game.
Your friends have the common courtesy
To let the battlefield call our names.
But you had to spill your guts
and let this whole situation go south.
But a thousand sovereigns say you
won't run a damn thing but your mouth.


301 AF, Kohai. Look it up.


Sir Batista Vallah, Knight of Mhaldor


Penned by my hand on the 16th of Aeguary, in the year 573 AF.