Masters of the World

The Liberator's Lay

Galmoor had barons, once,
Before Heahwisard rule.
Sword passed, father to son,
Each born where he’d rule.

But great tales are told,
Consequences left out,
And childhood dreams
Turn to adult folly.

To do great things,
One needs great force;
Which Galmoor’s people
Could not provide.

Heahwisards’ gold,
For Galmoor’s ground.
A people sold like cattle
To pursue dream-quest.

No native rulers now,
No ties to the land.
But clutching hands
And strictures unfair.

“Stay in your station,
Provide your tax,
Keep in at night,
And let us rule in peace.”

Hail to Thunor, who rights these wrongs!
Hail to his rains, that preserve the weak!

Woe to you who deliver harsh edicts,
And woe to your enforcers alike!

Burn bright, the serf-woods; but Thunor preserves.
Burn bright, high stables; they become ashes.

Freedom coming soon to those under heel,
Freedom ringing true to Galmoor’s lands.

But great tales are told,
Consequences left out.
Your land will quake
Under Heahwisards’ bought boots.

Edicts you hate, compound,
And turn Galmoor to gaol.
A Staff Mage’s grip,
Is not easily shaken.

Where find you might,
To deal with their magic?
Where find you freedom,
In homes made of soot?



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