The year was calm, the land at peace,
basking in a time of ease;
the woodland lived up to its name:
serene and wild, fair and untamed.

Then angel's singing broke the night,
piercing, zealous, praising Light
in blind worship-- never part
of those who follow Moon and Hart.
Across the Basin, stirring souls,
the angels flew, and flying stole
men, women, young-- from farm and mill
their dwellers took. On wood and hill
the spirits woke, their sleep disturbed,
warning of peril in words perturbed.

Five spires were raised, five parasites:
bloodless leeches stealing might
amassed with love, from nexi three:
Ravenwood and Engine and the Moonhart Tree.
'Neath Mother's boughs her children came,
seeking to defend her flame,
holding death in high disdain,
daring madness, daring pain.
They battled the enchanted waves
of villagers by Light enslaved,
and walked the Astral on their quest
at Mother Moon's and Crone's behest.

The guiding hand behind the blight?
An undead priestess of the Light
who preached of love and sent a knife,
who sought divine, eternal life.
More dreadful still, contagion's lord,
who made the plague-infested horde.

A great Alliance, seldom seen
of city and forests, white and green,
setting enmities aside,
gathered for the final fight
in unity, to strike a blow
against the Basin's common foe.

Long was the struggle, the losses great
and many found their final fate
on that dark day; but at the last
the Priestess fell, returned to death,
still calling with her final breath
upon her shattered dreams of might.

Thus ended the fanatic Light.