Of that fated hero and his victories, which

  Through sheer volume of bravery

  Hang on the tongues of men and drunkards

  In taverns and the high priests of stainless halls

  Where only the just and good is praised.

  Sing, O muse, who holds dearest

  All deeds, pure, and virtuous,

  Of the wielder of seas who sealed

  Those dark demons, or, those small

  And subtle deeds lost to time, secrecy,

  And the humility of that spear; patience wise, and selfless.

  Skyward guide, who overlook our

  Great and fertile Pangea; deep below they wings

  I invoke your memory and compassion

  To tell true and pure this story of faith, blood, and loss.

  Speak of that time, when all lands were but ash;

  Moreso mounds of bone and char than dirt and

  Bountiful and fertile valleys. Speak of the faith

  Of those times, not unwavering, but faded, cracked, and dying.

  Take me to that doubtful place, the last bastions

  Of humanity and her cause, so I may know of bravery.

  True bravery, true than steel.

  Within me, virtue hone, and without quill sharpen,

  So I may speak truly of Kalon’s journey.

  Not the tale of the halls of justice, or

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Taverns wherein drunkards boast, or

  The tale oft-recited at careless feasts.

  These are but micah, metal for fools.

  Tell of him, not as myth or legend, but as he was:

  Human, faithless, hopeless, and tragic.

  Tell of his lowness, and how it came to be, and by

  What force (for it it could only be thy grace) guided

  His ends to end those withered spawn of Extirpation.

  Reveal truth to me, so I may know true virtue

  And justify the ways of the four to men.

  But what brought our hero and

  fatal savior so low? Was it

  drink and whores and gambling?

  No, those are not taint the soul already dragged

  To the edge of stygia and back. No,

  in that stall of filth, that dirty home for swine,

  only accompaniment of the hero's true bane: shame.

  Defeat, the strike of three demons,

  nearly vanquished our hero who rode in retreat

  down the shattered mountaintops, and wandered

  a year and ten days among the deathly cities,

  each one more avaricious and slothenly, and

  full of those men seeking vain refuge from

  the terrible onslaught of the cataclysmic triumvirate.

  Inn by inn, drink by drink, whore by whore

  he wandered aimless to his lowest towards

  that dark and moldy stall for swine, and still

  among the swine, he was lowest.

  Prostrate he lay in that refuse and filth,

  nearly-naked, penniless, and weaponless