The tavern clamor dimmed when the stranger touched his lute. His cloak was ragged, his grin far too sly and yet… When he plucked the first note, the air itself seemed to hush. He sang not of kings or heroes, but of the world itself.
"Hear me, hear me, you children of night,
a tale of a world torn from the light.
A tale of stillness, cold and wide,
when even the stars forgot their stride.
The rivers froze, the heavens broke,
The breath of life was choked in smoke.
A hush so vast it bound all flame,
Till none recalled the former name.
Yet from that hush the Weaver rose,
A hand that mended, thread that chose.
He shattered sky and stitched the seas,
He bent the soil and called the trees.
Kaltheron, Kaltheron—
Thus was it sung,
A world reborn,
Forever young.
At the heart, He carved the Pools of birth,
The oldest wells of living earth.
From them stirred the first to climb—
The shapeless kin, the Slimes of prime.
Soft of form, with bodies weak,
Yet within their cores, all futures speak.
From them sprang pillars, proud and vast,
Born to hold creation fast.
One with scales that gleam like flame,
One with roots no axe can tame.
One whose brow the stormclouds crown,
One whose depths would drag you down.
One of stone, who breaks the field,
One of shadow, cloaked and sealed.
One of fleeting flesh and bone,
One of beasts with fang and tone.
One that blooms with leaf and vine,
One that builds with swarm divine.
One that rends with fang and claw,
One that walks where ruin gnaws.
And still, and still, the Slimes remain—
The first, the root, the hidden chain.
Mock them not, for frail they seem,
Yet in their clay still stirs the dream."
The bard leaned close, eyes too sharp for a fool's grin.
His voice lowered to a whisper, every word a weight:
"So heed me now, you proud, you tall,
The song of Pillars holds us all.
Threads may fray, the weave may tear…
And when it does—will Weaver care?"
A final laugh, a string snapped sharply. The crowd cheered nervously– But when they looked again, the bard was gone.