Song of Ashala
The Song of Ashala is a bard’s song believed to have been written by Miranda. It was given to the party by what appeared to be a disembodied voice in royal hall in the Shukari Undercity. It reads as follows:
Song of Ashala, Daughter of Man, Voice of the World, V
The lands and seas churn and boil,
As its hunger grew
Despite centuries of Rune’s toil,
The devourer was birthed anew.
Though we thought we had slain the beast,
We knew soon it had only quit,
And slept until it could wake to feast,
And awake with it our “gift.”
But, what wicked winds have scattered us,
We adventurers of yore,
To face the beast that plagues the world,
We must gather together once more.
But what has become of us?
How has fate allowed us to be scattered?
Or was it not the hand of fate that separated us,
And left us scarred and battered?
How could we lose sight of each other,
And allow ourselves to be broken?
Once we fought as sisters and brothers,
And now hardly a word is spoken.
How can we abandon our sacred deed,
when there is even one life to save?
To do so would surely break the giant’s creed,
And stir the paladin from his grave.
And the stone that heals the scars,
And the one that preys at night,
Would surely put aside their wars,
And again join us in our plight.
And finally Rune’s first convert,
Who yet seeks to free her kin,
Would wrest her blade from the tired earth,
And make the deserts bleed again.
The wounds of our past do not heal,
And we each bare our tokens,
To become whole again we must reveal
Our history unspoken.
But who would hear our history,
And carry on our task?
And the even greater mystery:
Dare we even ask?
To new allies we could share our sins,
And ask to share our deed,
And those whose quest would then begin,
would be considered friends indeed.
The monk whose past is interred
Under smoke and fire,
Yet remains undeterred,
And will to the greatest heights aspire.
The artificer who can easily improve,
A dagger, bow, or staff,
May yet hear the words that calm and soothe,
spoken by his other half.
The sorcerer who seeks to gather
The greatest kind of power,
may let history repeat itself rather
than join us in the final hour.
The elf who knows not of the world,
Yet will help the just attack,
Will find with war banners unfurled,
An army at her back.
And the woman whose obsession
With swashing to a gleam
Will find that her greatest possession,
Is not her vessel but her team.
May these new warriors aid us,
And should we fail again,
We shall take with us the solace,
That we fought with honorable men.