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.

Their reputations precedes them it seems, narrator of humble wish. Gone for months only to return with meager wit. Deepest apologies do the wind yet whisper, for absence the size of quill and paper.

Skeleblook greeted nobody in particular, the call of the wind echoing perpendicular. They could almost hear the word "greetings" gaining faint passage on the breeze