Oh Archaeon, lost knight adrift,
Stripped of your honor in one swift shift,
You bemoan Mhaldor's unified might,
Yet forget your own deeds that sealed your plight.

You rant in news posts, all broken text,
Proclaiming grand vengeance - what follies next?
Your spelling stumbles with each new scrawl,
A hazard to eyes from hall to hall!

But battle has moved, dear NO SIR of dread,
From fields of Sapience to poems instead.
We brandish quills like sharpened swords,
And pen your downfall in rhyming chords.

Yes, you cry of teaming, such easy refrain,
While we amuse ourselves at your refrain;
Now you face us on this poetic battleground,
Where your shaky lines get humorously drowned.

No longer armed with steel alone,
Our verse cuts deeper than bone,
Each rhyming thrust a mocking gibe,
While your pleas for mercy simply subside.

So wail away, oh cast-off knight,
Your capital letters fail to fight,
For all your gloom can't quell the grin,
That Mhaldor wears when reeling you in!

In the end, dear Archaeon, you see,
The might of Mhaldor, so fierce and swords free,
Shall chase you from war to word with glee,
And your news board laments? They'll only multiply our spree!

Good Fight!
Dhaak

Penned by my hand on the 5th of Valnuary, in the year 966 AF.