In the veiled glades of Myth Wnthalas, where silvery moonlight weaves dreams with the shadow, we watched the fall of Joldale, the once vibrant heart of the realm.
A town steeped in shared laughter and sweet murmurs of love, now an Abyss clawed open by the hands of dread. From the hushed canopies of our eldritch forest, we bore silent witness to its crumbling walls, the very air heavy with the taste of despair.
Shadows danced a grotesque ballet in the spectral streets, their wails a discordant melody that shook the bones of the earth. Among the spectral spectacles, the echoes of lives lived and lost, the quiet weeping of our hearts rang true.
Yet, with our eyes of starlight and wisdom, we stood by, bound by our ancient vows of noninterference. We were as helpless as the silent Moon reflecting in the tear-streaked river, an impotent god watching the ebb of mortal tragedy.
From the ash-kissed remains of their once glorious hearth, we heard a melody, a haunting lullaby that lulled the stars to mournful slumber. A lament, woven with the final cries of Joldale’s children, the sighs of the Dawnlight Purifiers, the roars of the Nether-bound Covenant.
We heard, and in our hearts, we echoed the sorrow. In our ancient tongue, a verse began to form, a mournful whisper in the wind’s sigh, a shiver in the river’s murmur.
"Joldale, fair maiden of the realm, wrapped in the embrace of copper and stone, now your spirit wanders, lost and lone, in the eternal night of Banor’s wrath. A specter’s echo, a lover’s sigh, your song now whispers in the sighing rye.
Your children, now silent as the unborn dream, embraced by the unforgiving stream of time and fear. Their laughter but a memory, a spectral chime in the wind’s lonely symphony.
Once radiant in the morning’s soft caress, now your streets run crimson in the night’s cold press. Your heart, once filled with love and joy, now plays host to the specter’s ploy.
Yet, even as you crumble, your echo remains, a testament of strength amidst the chains of fear and loss. And though we stand aside, our hearts sing the sorrow of the river’s tide.
Joldale, in your fall, you teach a tale, a lesson inscribed on the winter’s gale. That love and fear, side by side, are but threads in the tapestry of life’s wide stride.
And so, in the whisper of the forest’s breath, we remember you, Joldale, in life and death."
Our voices wove the words, a dirge that rustled in the leaves, shivered in the river weeds, and sang in the forest winds, a lamentation for Joldale Overhang, a requiem for a town lost to fear and misunderstanding.
A mournful ballad, attributed to the High Elves of Myth Wnthalas.