When banners flew in colors bright,
And scholars penned with sheer delight,
The Asterian Restoration shone-
A world, at last, not quite alone.
For years we shared, built, and learned,
Old hate was buried, no bridges burned.
A future forged with clasping hands
Of adventurers from different lands.

But joy, like fruit left out to dry,
Will sour fast beneath the sky.
A creeping cough, a skin turned grey,
The Mysian Rot had come to stay.
It whispered first through festive air,
Then screamed in lungs laid raw and bare.
And in its wake, they formed a plan
The AHO, our savior clan.

At first, they shared what each had known,
With scrolls and seeds of knowledge grown.
But whispers turned to pointed blame,
Each faction claimed the other's shame.
Old wounds reopened, grudges stirred,
The cries for help were barely heard.
And so the hope they once had sewn,
Was strangled by the pride full-grown.

Then came a find on distant shore
Meropis, land of ancient lore.
Where Royal Lemons, ancient and rare,
Held healing in their citrus air.
The Knight of Aster, wise and discreet,
Knew that unity could not compete.
Yet trusted a loose-lipped, lying witch,
Who kept the secret as well as a snitch.

The secret spread like fire and flame,
And soon the world was filled with blame.
The Knight's own keep was stormed by night,
But found no lemons left in sight.
For favors lost and secrets sold,
Had turned all hopes from sweet to mold.

And far in Inbhir Ness deep,
We helped dwarves unearth a wine in sleep.
Its scent could soothe, its warmth could mend,
But none could share or bottles send.
Each kept it close, their cure their own,
And so the rot had further grown.

One last chance, a single tree
On Mhaldor's isle, grew hope for thee.
Its blood oranges, so bold and bright,
Could burn the Rot and bring back light.
But when they learned of the healing source-
From Ashtani hands, the last recourse-
The world recoiled in scorn and spite,
And turned away from saving light.

The Ashtan legion, with blade and will,
Held off those who sought to kill.
They stood alone, no aid, no cheer,
As hope was dwarfed by hate and fear.
The peasants raged, their hope betrayed,
As cities watched and courage swayed.
And Mhaldor's might, both bold and sly,
Blighted the tree to let it die.
The final chance was deemed lost,
Its fruit now wilted, the cure the cost.

The final cure, through lucky chance,
Was found not in some bold advance.
A lemon's rind was ground and stirred,
Into a draught that healed and cured.
No epic feat, no chosen boast-
Just luck alone, not factions close.

So mark this tale, and heed it well:
How bright a dream so fast can fell.
When trust is lost and grudges feed,
The world will rot in word and deed.
And unity, once held so high,
May die beneath a selfish lie.


Penned by my hand on the 9th of Chronos, in the year 979 AF.