Fifty seasons past, in times overgrown and abandoned,
Lived Hinterlands vast and wild, twice as unknown as fate,
Holding many mysteries both bewildering and unknown,
Lands wild, confusion and treachery all they would ever create.
A colony of spirits inhabiting the oak trees,
They would move in purpose and silence,
To and fro, the colony traveled as they pleased,
Killing under the moon, hands upraised in defiance.
The great wolf left loose,
He prowled through the land once again,
His mark found on every tree and every spruce,
Until a traveler sought the beast, and it was gracefully slain.
The sleeping foe was as tall as the night sky,
With every breath he would poison the air around him,
Thick stone-flesh covering his single ruby eye,
His foresight was still strong and true, tidings proved grim.
Hinterlands Folklore heard clearly and truthfully,
Untarnished by the seasons change, year after year,
Histories left both bizarre and beautifully,
Eloquently left in text, yet in history painfully austere.
