Oh doctor, have you heard?
perhaps you havn't yet.
But her poor mother's sores refuse to heal.
And leave holes in her flesh.

Doctor what does she have?
And what afflicts her, well?
Even her skin is crawling off
For a break from the wails.

The scabs that purse her steal her flesh are growing by the day.
There has to be a cure. Is death the only way?

Oh, Doctor, have you heard?
His sister cannot breathe.
A moment underground or pipes
cause her poor chest to heave.

Doctor, what can be done?
Don't venoms do it well?
Is to drown her such a simple way
to give her breath and smell.

The painful thought of drowning causes her poor brother to sway.
There has to be a cure. Is death the only way?

Doctor, there's yet another.
This one's affliction wild.
He gathers corpses, cuts them open
And does it with a smile.

Oh doctor, how absurd!
That man does what he wants.
And through scorn and abandonment
the cures are not for naught.

Doctor, how odd the world.
What less have we then he?
You kill to be just who you are
and we, for mutiny.

-Sir Marth Naser.


Penned by my hand on the 25th of Slyphian, in the year 206 MA.