It was a dark, dismal night when a young lad prepared for the fight
He girded himself with prayers as he buckled on his dented armour so
His sword was sheathed in a well-worn scabbard. Off to battle he would go!

Upon the path of Righteousness, he was guided by Her radiant Light
Darkness lay before him. With breviary held high, he prayed fervently
Then the deceptions, once revealed, had no choice other than to flee!

To those of Chaotic mein, he strode forth with Fire's purifying might
The occultists shriveled, the chaos was cleansed, and the flames burned
There was a brief silence, one poignant yet sweet, one so long yearned

At last! To Evil! Tired, worn, he turned to where they were in sight
Sword to shackle, they broke. The slaves found a calloused hand to rise
They looked at one who was a warrior through with gentleness in his eyes

The Dawn rose the next day, glorious, brilliant, from suffering, a respite
Those he had saved gathered round. Falling to his knees, eyes on the prize
"This," he proclaimed, "Is the war we must fight in order to see Paradise."

Penned by my hand on the 7th of Lupar, in the year 965 AF.