Poet of Mourning Collapse

"Mnestia, we pray to you. If there were no song in this world, then there would be no spring brimming with song, and no forest would ever bloom..."

Washing their hands clean with spring water, then raising with both hands a cup of clear, fine wine as an offering to the divine, the wandering poets gathered before the shrine, arguing over who would win the wreath blessed by Mnestia. The three Parthia sisters, famed for their love poems, sang first, followed by the old poet Lupes with his thousand wondrous metaphors. Those exquisite sounds could not move the goddess, and the cup of wine before her did not stir in the least.

Until a wandering poet plucked the seven-stringed harp in her hands and performed a story recorded on ancient papyrus. The dust of a thousand years ago came rushing in, and the story began like this: When there were still a great many city-states in the world, there was once a city-state attacked by a savage dragon.

"Weep for my homeland...

Monsters rule the halls, the descendants become an evil breed Only because the great dragon invaded that high tower, It bewitched my king, and devoured the princess of my country..."

The finest wine was drained by the goddess, and the wandering poet became the owner of the wreath.

"People dug gold out from inside the body of Georios, it was the first violent metal, and from it were born conspiracy and war."

The origin of war can no longer be found, and much history has become legend. But even if it is only legend... Clearly it is arrogance, scheming and greed that make people fight without end, and yet gold is made to bear the guilt for no reason at all. Just as in those romantic years that knew nothing of strife, white steel and brass were once offerings to the gods, and only later were they pushed down from the altar and melted into swords and blades, becoming metals more violent than gold.

The dragon in the story has already been destroyed... The wars between nations have also all but ended, and the wandering poet dragged her steps to the Holy City, singing for everyone the story of what came after: After the savage dragon occupied the city-state, the people gathered dragon-hunting warriors to rescue the princess.

"Weep for my homeland...

The valiant captain, with chains of pure gold, at last subdued the savage dragon.

The old king's cry of mourning echoed down from the top of the tower...

In the dragon's belly there remained only the bones of the devoured princess."

The tassel of the golden bracelet brushed the strings, letting out a crisp sigh.

"When Aquila opened its eyes, all the stars sank into sleep, leaving only one lonely star peeking in secret, as though it alone were the most curious."

The narrative poem had been sung into the second cycle of day and night, and around the poet ever more listeners gathered, among them Kremnos folk with arrows clinking upon them, and Janusopolis folk casting divination sticks to ask the will of the gods. Ever since the Black Tide invaded the city-states, countless texts have been lost, the scholars of the Grove of Epiphany could not gather every record in time, and many small city-states did not even leave a name behind.

Only the wandering poet knew that in the ancient city-state attacked by the evil dragon, a mysterious alchemy had once been handed down: Take flesh and blood as the foundation, and from it all things can be created, from it miracles can be reached, so said the alchemist to the king whose heart was shattered by the loss of his daughter.

"Weep for my homeland...

The silver-tongued alchemist claimed he could use the dragon's flesh and blood to resurrect the princess.

The thing had died, dead yet not dead, and ten more days and nights passed.

At last the ritual succeeded. But..."

The last ray of the star closed its eyes with reluctance, longing to hear the end of the story of the children of humankind.

"Mortals cannot find any trace of Thanatos in this world, nor the River Styx of legend that the living cannot cross, so where does that river flow to?"

We have never heard of that enormous dragon, nor have we read of a resurrection ritual using flesh and blood in any ancient book, some listeners objected. The poet answered that she is not the last descendant of the ancient city-state, nor does she know whether that savage dragon truly existed, that this is only a poem she heard from the wandering poets before her, a poem passed down by word of mouth through many generations.

If no one sings it on, the history of those ancient city-states will truly be buried, all of it fading away with time: Kingdoms once flourishing, drowned by the River Styx, becoming a place that even stray dogs and vultures disdain, a curse left behind by the souls the savage dragon swallowed.

"Weep for my homeland...

"O princess! Why were you refined into the shape of a savage dragon.

"Devouring the alchemist, the valiant captain, and the deluded king as well.

"A banquet of blood summoned the shade of death, and the ancient city-state was erased from that day on..."

Remember the name of the buried kingdom! This is the story of Styxia, sung anew by a poet wearing silver-studded shoes. She collects stories only for the sake of the stories themselves, just like the letters woven and left behind by the silver studs on her shoes. "Remember the story, and forget me."