My nemesis works in a soot-splattered lair,
With singed little eyebrows and wild, crackling hair;
He mutters of eggs in a nest down below,
"What hatches?" we ask. He says, "Gods only know."

He bargains with planes as they tangle and tear,
Found a sage to save us (I hate to be fair).
Too driven, too ruthless, too keen to ascend -
Such dreadful Ambition, I highly commend.

He spars sharp as flint, though the grook rolls her eyes,
Unmoved by his bluster, immune to his tries;
Yet mark me - though rivals - I'll say it aloud:
He climbs ever Skyward, I'm secretly proud.


Penned by my hand on the 15th of Valnuary, in the year 1000 AF.