Goose Thera has fallen. Liberation came in the form of none other than the white-feathered goose of Boldarihm. A champion. A paragon.

Order (and Angela) has been restored.

But at what cost?

Blood and feathers line the streets. The stench of death prevails. Such toll upon the goose population! Such death. Such grief for those families, bereft of son and daughter, mother and father, aunt and uncle.

And yet it gets worse.

Though short lived, the Dominion of Goose Thera has left a mark indelible. Having menaced Nissa and the entirety of the Lucretian Athanaeum, these flocks of geese (and meese) have done irreparable damage.

Thus, I must regretfully inform you that the highly successful proliferation of poetry into the daily lives of Achaeans will come to an end at the next Serenade.

Though the Age of Woe is but a memory, remember this echo of that dark time.

Remember the geese.

And remember the hero who spared us all.

Penned by My hand on the 3rd of Aeguary, in the year 972 AF.