Blessings and Curses, the Tale of the Lathurar Forest

Lathur, Solemn Pilgrim, Wanderer through the days,
Father of Dreynorik, First of the Traveller fays.
Walked down into a Grove of Trees, amidst its cooling shade,
And slept for manys days there, then left, but parted with a thankful blessing he'd made,

"Grove of Silent Trees,
Bowers to the Zephyr breeze,
Yet may thy offspring be numerous and mighty,
May you grow into a grand Forest, stately, sightly."

Amentoris the Bold, Lord above the Lordly Hosts,
Who sees all plains and mounts and coasts,
Heard the blessing heard the voice,
And said "May this be so, this Place of Lathur's Choice."

Lathurar, this grove was named, forever, for ages more,
This became the Passageway, Jatur-ghiar, the Green Door.
For many pilgrims passed on through that wood,
And rested where the Kindly Trees stood.

It came to pass, this Lathurar became a forest strong,
as broad and great as it was gay and long.
The Diev-Karon pulsed through its heart,
Its waters setting east and west apart.

Orioles and sparrows flew over the heads of trees,
The deer of many places came to Where the Silent Waters Tease.
The Windill flowers, dark yet bright, shone merrily with silver shafts of moonlight,
While Dienpov glittered, when the sky was clear and bright.

Then the Fenjalkis came, settled in this land of green.
Fairest among many they'd seen.
They built their shining cities, built happy, merry towns,
And erected massive monuments on massive, hand-built mounds.

But evil worked upon this people of the Southeast,
And spreading in pure bread, seeds of deadly yeast.
The were torn apart by hatred and strife,
Drained the forest of its happy, peaceful, life.

Death marred the Forest, saplings were crushed under feet,
Barren were the riverbanks, where wood and forest used to meet.
At last, like they came, the Fenjalkis departed,
Left the wartorn ground they'd smarted.

But they left a curse behind,
To last as time itself unwinds,

"Die, trees! You once were our hiding place.
A refuge for our miughty race!
But we need thee no longer,
For we are greater, crueller, stronger.

'Prosper not! Grow not!
May thy branches fall and rot.
Fail to live, fail to be,
Let no mortal hear thy plea!"

And so this forest, once good, grew quiet, and dead,
Cursed by the curel words once said.
The power of those words was strong upon their boughs,
And so they turned to stone, and did not stir nor arouse.

Then Amentoris, the immortal, heard the forest's cry.
The cursed ground cried out, and heaved with mighty a sigh.
He blessed the ground again, and called, in a voice heavy, and grand,
A blessing of new birth, a revival of the land.

"May the Leaves on your stone-held braches turn green again,
May thy numbers increase by thousands times ten,
Be all that I once made you to be!
Come alive, Fenjalki curse cannot hold thee!"


The forest became green again, once more alive,
The birds and beast returned, the deer began to arrive.
Restored the ancient, happy, days of old,
With a mighty blessing none could challenge nor hold.

This is the tale of blessings and curses,
Stanzas and verses,
Of the sadness of silence, of the power of words,
Of Amentoris, and Lathur, of beats, and birds.