Long have the interlopers in the town, the circling hyenas, stood unanswered.

A new poster is set up high on the noticeboard. A large piece of parchment, containing a poem — it is not signed with an author. However, the elegant script may be familiar to some who have read this poet's work before. For others, the small painted ink rose at the bottom of the page may be a dead giveaway.

════════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════════

Defiance of the Spire

A beacon called the Spire rises.
It calls out to both man and beast.
From Albern's Crossing, it apprises,
To mighty Amafells out East. 
There were those that were here before us.
Now, but a monument remains.
That is the secret of these forests:
Nothing is lasting, all must change.

This promise of new life and welfare,
Away from burdens of the past,
Brings many of us here from elsewhere,
Working together, peace at last.
And yet, fell whispers break the silence.
Through fabrications, honeyed words,
Some seek to force us to compliance;
Be warned, your slander has been heard.

What makes you think we are unsteady?
What makes you think we are alone?
With hands on weapons at the ready,
We see the chaos you have sown. 
Our boots may be well-worn and muddied,
For we have travelled from afar,
But we fear not to leave them bloodied,
Nor do we hide our many scars.

If you care not for peace and order,
Make your intentions loud and clear.
Your words will find scarce few supporters,
You have no means to cause us fear.
Then, you may circle us like vultures.
But, just so everything is set,
The town here has a certain culture,
Response in kind for every threat:

One fact that zealots should remember —
Your faith in dreams requires sleep.
We do not care for such surrender,
So all your vessels — you can keep.
But should your ivy grow and blight us,
And all your lamps still shine like pests,
Remain assured, the Spire obliges —
You'll dream forever in your rest.

The offer stands as well to bandits,
Who crawl out from their fetid swamps.
You're bold of tongue, you propagandists,
With little else behind your pomp.
So take your cursed coins and intrigue,
That sickness that you wish to spread,
And spend your efforts in your own league.
Sort out your own house, as is said.

As for the courtiers and the claimants —
You should return beyond the Wall.
Conscience is not worth all your payments,
And soon your kingdoms, too, will fall.
If you want subjects, you have plenty.
If you want land, go fight your wars.
Folk in the Reach can be quite friendly,
but they are free; they are not yours.

Yet if you bring the Valkian spear-tip,
If you know not our way of steel,
If you would self-appoint a lordship,
If you would still demand we kneel,
Then send your numbers without number,
Your errant knights, your goaded slaves,
The Reach's fields have room to slumber —
And they'll know well their brethren's graves.

Know this: Such is the Spire's defiance.
Best do away with your charades.
We do not spurn trusted alliance,
But sword-bringers die by their blades.
And as they rot in earthy wreckage,
Their bones in coffins well-arranged, 
One epitaph will be their message:
Nothing is lasting, all must change.

════════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════════