The Tearing of the Weave

A Song of Loss

What is it with half-elven bards?

Above the hum of activity on the streets of Myth Drannor below, a lone voice rises, singing a melody so achingly sad that those who can hear it stop momentarily, brush tears from their eyes or shake their heads, then move on.

Tall grew the trees in the hidden glade,
Below the tower that was not a tower.
Kept safe for eons from spell and blade,
By guardians who wielded Mystra’s power.
The words that sighed through their golden leaves
Had been heard in part but never whole,
But the tall trees fell to the hands of thieves
And Magic’s death is now their goal.
A precious circle of wizard’s skill
Is the key to their sundered ground.
Their home lies silent now and still
‘Til the door in Nature’s hall is found.
The living must find that which is lost
Before the world is riven,
Or mortals and gods will pay the cost
And lose forever the blessings given.



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