As I sit 'mongst dim globes reading, tending tasks the House is needing,
from a jagged peak comes screaming. A sound which travels all too far.

To the gates, my daegger gleaming. Moving south, a rising keening
coming from the shrine (or seeming), aural landscape most bizarre.

The product of some unknown scheming? What was this signal of alarm?

I stood dumbfounded, reconciling, confused, but tarried at my climbing.
A situation so beguiling, well outside my repertoire.

There stood brave Achilles, smiling, corpses carried for defiling,
Pretty face and iv'ry styling, wielding mace and morningstar.

Beset by foes on my arriving, quoth Achilles, "Duanathar."

A scene of violence was depicted. East and West, both convicted
by the courts so contradicted, philosophies which were too far.

Evil eyes held him afflicted. Gravehands grasped, his moves constricted.
What maneuver be predicted, what tactics from this commisar?

Seeing Evil unevicted, the warrior spoke, "Duanathar."

Sweat upon his brow adorning, dementia churning and suborning,
he closed his eyes in fev'rish mourning, smoking on his cinnabar.

How had he received no warning? Party tells did fill with scorning
even as gravehands, scratching, thorning, tore at this renowned Vanguard.

Lastly dreaming of bright morning, his dying breath, "Duanathar."

Penned by my hand on the 24th of Mayan, in the year 793 AF.