f**kin hate when people do that

Emergent were they, of silver and plume, to pick up fine quill and their tales exhume.

The narrator looks on at those with swift hand, artistic skill beyond their words bland,
Never could they compete with such scribblings, so instead Skul's skill they will simply be witnessing.

And Indeed do they glance upon crowds of dozens, bold tales not yet been forgotten.

The narrator picked up their quill and began the mad scribblings of scriptures untold.

The leaves strewn bow, and the clouds do tip,
Like feathered hat lowered in respectful bit,
For one such as they, narrator of little renown,
Lord is a title unnecessary to be bound.