There was once a youngin, naive was she.
Unable to learn, unable to see.

Faced with misguided notions,
her husband sacrified himself vainly,
No match for the Hunter,
No match for hunters.

No will was contested,
but the youngins lack of sense,
Misguided and sad, lost in a cage,
of her own making..

A hunter of old,
teacher and no longer friend,
disappointed, sadden, and mad,
for the child lost
in a sea of her own contempt.

Discontent, she spreads,
no longer Pride,
Sacrified her husband,
for her own Pride.

No one is to blame,
No one but she,
Unable to see,
her words, actions,
are the reasons,
her lover is gone.

Wylliam Laidir



Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 8th of Chakros, in the year 474 MA.