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tgrt

A Poem for a place holding part of my soul.

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[ ! ] Upon visiting Rosenyr, one would come across honest and heartfelt poetry about the place, pinned on the Library’s door. Penned by Timothée de Fontaine, you’d assume this man had some history with the Principality.

 

Spoiler

 

 

 


 

 

Do come and ask

of Rosenyr.

Of all the things I’ve left behind.

Of all their people. Of their drinks.

Of all the creatures that came by.

I see it fondly,

Rosenyr.

Despite the cynics and their lies.

Despite the anger. Such anger.

So much greed and grief and pain and bloodshed.

Men gourmandizing gold, romantizing dread.

By gods I left so many things there.

What ignorance. There was endless fear.

Unspeakable fear.

But.

I forgive you,

Rosenyr.

I might see past your broken ties.

Your sacrifices, revolutions, poisoned drinks.

Your pretty corners, petty crime.

With broken pasts come broken people.

And broken people mend with time.

I come to see you,

Rosenyr.

And hope this time I don’t see knives.

For I sure miss your flower gardens.

Your shy demeanor.

And your wine.

T’was quite a journey,

Rosenyr.

You’ve made me laugh. You’ve made me cry.

And you were there when journeys came.

And you’ll be there when journeys die.

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 Bestia happened to be strolling by Rosenyr, a bottle of ale in one hand, mead in the other. He took a sip from whichever one he felt like as he stumbled by the library, where he chugged the remnants of his drink. With a broad smile beneath his beard, he let out a content sigh “Tooime foor ah pess!” he declared, fecking his bottles aside before lifting his kilt an inch or two. As he formed a natural stream right under the door knob, he faced ahead to come face-to-face with the poetry, mumbling as he read along. He perked a brow as he neared the end. “Oond yoor wooine…” he read out, letting out a grunt as he took his hands back, letting go of the kilt. “T’a foockers goot wooine.” he mumbled under his breath, swaying back and forth gently as he blinked at the poem, “Yoo’re m’man.” he declared, winking at the parchment before finally leaving. “****’n’arse’n’arse’n’****.” he sung to himself, strolling into the night. “SOOCH LOIS!” he shouted out, quoting the poem “YOO’VE MID ME CROI!” “AH FOORGIV YOO!” he finished off in a genuine tone, done with disturbing the peace for the night.

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