In the village of Jaru, where sadness thrives,
Where oppression reigns and hope barely survives,
Chapel Street harbors a chapel, grim and bleak,
With a twin hued altar, a symbol of the weak.

In that crypt of a chapel, deceit takes its form,
For Father Garron, with a heartless storm,
At twin-hued altar, cursed and profane,
Worships Deucalion, who wears a false god's name.

Deucalion, the "Righteous Fire" they proclaim,
Yet beneath the mask, a sinister game,
A deity of justice, a cunning facade,
To steal souls, and hearts, in a darkness untrod.

The constable, lost in a sea of despair,
Clutches at notions of justice, unaware,
Deucalion's corruption has clouded his sight,
His heart tainted, his path veiled in night.

Within this somber realm, the villagers weep,
Their spirits oppressed, their sorrows run deep,
Beneath the weight of an evil deity's claim,
Their souls consumed, devoured by its wicked game.

Babel's priests, feared shadows, dressed in black,
Silent warriors, striking fear with each attack,
Deadliest fighters, honed in battles fought,
Iron crown and spear, where death's lessons are taught.

In this village of sorrow, heaviness fills the air,
A flicker of hope strives to break the despair,
Though oppression tightens its grip, sadness prevails,
A ember of rebellion burns, seeking new tales.

Jaruvian hearts harbor yearnings to be free,
To shed the shackles, rewrite their destiny,
Babel's priests, warriors of unmatched might,
Shall ignite the black flame, and vanquish the "Light".

In this village of falsehood, the air heavy with woe,
A flicker of light struggles to break through the foe,
But hope lingers, a fragile ember that remains,
Resisting the 'Righteous', where despair still refrains.

As corruption crumbles, Light's "Truth" revealed,
A dawn of healing, past wounds gently sealed,
For within despair's depths, a seed of hope is sown,
Jaru reclaims its spirit, an unknown future grown.

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Scarlatan, in the year 918 AF.