Behold, good folk, and gather ‘round my firelit stage,

To hear a tale of valor wrought in a darkling age.

When whispers of the undead crept through a weary land,

A squire named Aeron rose, with sword in youthful hand.

In Torin’s Bend he dwelt, his father a blacksmith grand,

Whose hammer rang at dawn’s first light across the humble land.

They heard the fearful rumors: purges set aflame,

The Order of the Phoenix torn, dark powers staking claim.

One day, from out the marshy fog, a ragged band arrived,

Their faces pale with grief and dread; they barely had survived.

They told of ghouls and cruelty, a swirl of dread and strife,

Of farmsteads scorched as “heretics,” of fear that choked all life.

No sooner had those refugees poured out their trembling woes,

When shrill alarms upon the gate called watchers to their bows.

A pack of slavering ghoul-thralls advanced across the plain,

Their hunger rotted into bone, to necromancer chained.

Aeron snatched his father’s steel, ill-forged yet strong of will,

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

He joined the village line of shields, though but a novice still.

The ghouls assailed with gnashing jaws, with eyes of bloody red,

The folk of Torin’s Bend held fast, though many quaked with dread.

Young Aeron felt his courage rise, as though a flame within,

He parried claws and thrust his blade beneath a ghoul-thing’s chin.

It staggered, shrieking, black blood spilled upon the trodden clay,

Then slumped at last, a wretched husk, undone by mortal fray.

When all the beasts were driven off, the gate shut to the night,

A hush of awe fell o’er the folk, "This lad had joined the fight."

Then came a priestess, cloaked in grey, crest of the Phoenix worn,

“Sister Eliwen” she named herself, her beautiful face and voice forlorn, 

For tales of purging scarred her heart, the State’s corruption spread,

And fractious groups within her Order sowed both fear and dread.

Yet in Aeron’s eyes she sensed a light, a courage unalloyed,

A fire that might burn free of greed, and darkness be destroyed.

She bid him come and train anew at the Holy Burning Tree,

Where paladins of old were forged for truth and bravery.

Galrin, the blacksmith, paused in thought, then gave a weary nod:

“If Phoenix calls, my son must go; let him serve truth, not fraud.”

Thus Aeron left his village dear, uncertain yet resolved,

Toward the seat of paladin might, where further plots evolved.