The cart was approached by a man,

From clothes, seemed of Tribe Flumann,

From destiny, of Tribe Ash.

"To please spirits, we must smash

The corpse of this Verlin trash."

Proclaimed the savage.

Such witchcraft was not of this age,

Such heartlessness sent me into a rage,

Their continued existence I could not abide.

No longer time could I bide,

No longer could I hide,

I lunged at the primitive.

After all, such crimes none could forgive;

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Death was all I could give,

To these backwater rogues.

Native-hunting was in vogue,

And I am not one to engage in empty monologue.

The Flummite was no more.

Yet remained enemies galore,

And I had to come to the fore.

Called for was swift action,

For I remained uninterested in hostile reaction,

And I was not accustomed to inaction.

I rushed at the nearest.

Suffice to say he was not the best.

He now rests.

Most were similar trash.

Yet I must not be rash,

My dreams I cannot let a tribal dash,

Their Chief proved stronger.

Yet his confidence could not be wronger,

For my sword was much longer.

Word claimed his heart.

I took all their poison darts,

And a great fire I did start.

Soon their corpses were naught but ash.

Thus ended that fateful clash,

Tribal resilience I did smash,

Leaving no scope for recovery.