The tales they shared in Simnel, those who sheltered in its walls

They were taken down by others who had survived the city’s fall

Huddled in the armory, their nervous tales did ring

But once the battle ended, their tales began to sing

Repeated oft and spread throughout the land of Pexate fair

There soon were calls to honor them, the sword-tale spinners there

A book they made, a weighty tome, to preserve their reverie

But that, I think, is not what you have come all this way to see

The armory also commissioned a blade, ornately wrought and fair

And inscribed upon its metalwork, all the tales-tellers who were there

Never meant for battle, to this day it hangs upon a wall

Reminding us from most to least, there’s steel and sharpness in us all

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