Below the Southern Mounts does Paavik lie
A calm and quiet place if e'er there was.
And to this place do I and my steed fly
To set the village craftsmen all abuzz.
The cyclopean fools will flock to me
Once racechange glamours all are safely wound
And ere the year ends, all will bend their knee
As I their simple minds deftly astound.
"The finest craftsman of these lands shall be
My right-hand man, shall rule alongside me!"

And as the craftsmen rush off to their tasks,
I, village Lorecrafter, do pause to think.
How might I fit my greatness into flasks?
What magnum opus could a great man drink?
And naught of all my potions reached my mark -
A draught of fire or antidote would be
Naught but an insult  - seen as joke or lark
And most unfitting to present to he.
I pondered 'til the night it came at last -
Sweet vitae, Life itself solves my impasse!

As Paavik's artisan, the choice is clear
Of all my craft, there is but one to make.
A throne of wood, with moonhart for veneer
Inlaid with gold and gems, the eye to take.
A journey to the Glom for lumber first -
For ravenwood, so deep and dark and grand
With wood acquired, and into shape coerced,
The white-wood layer next, with silver strands.
And when the work is done, each piece in place
Only a fool would doubt its Kingly grace!

Within my bindery, my eye does tire
Of plans and patterns, blueprints and their kind
For none of these can meet a task so dire -
And none can match the visions of my mind!
A book of finest vellum, bound with gold
A spine of supple leather, cured and dyed
For scribes to scramble to record deeds bold!
A tome in which great deeds would long abide!
No sooner than conceived was my work done
And with the work behind me, I have won!

The pots are scattered, spoons and knives a mess
But only pride I feel, as I appraise this feast!
For several nights, I met only duress,
And now at long last, my gift is released!
A chicken in a turkey in a duck
A glaze of coq au vin, and lemon zest
All these and more; my guest has priceless luck
To dine on all these things, to taste my best!
I am exhausted by my work, my greatest pride
And once 'tis served, I shall the world preside!

The trusted pentagram beneath my feet glows blue,
A thousand spells and more alight my mind
And which of these, I muse, would best construe
A kingly presence? Why, a spell to bind!
The holder only need invoke the spell
To make all 'round bend knee and swear to serve.
Such risky work could only be done well
By masters such as I, of wit and nerve!
With Geburah, Binah and Kether's spheres,
I fortify the charm with dread and fear.

The hammer sounds, a satisfying ring
As one more sheet of gold pounds into place
A set of master plate, my offering
Gauntlets of steel, beneath a gilded face
But armour on its own gets little done.
And so, beside the plate, there lies a blade
A tool, well-made, for seeing battles won
With edge as fine as babe's hair, aptly made.
Thus with this plate, this sublime work of art
And with this sword, shall I win our guest's heart.

What better man for things of grace than I?
No other trade can match a jeweller's fare!
As I dot gold with diamonds, I muse why
The other tradesmen think they have a prayer.
I look down at my work - a sublime crown
Of gold and diamonds, cut by my own hand.
Purest silver curls and snakes around
The most delightful headpiece in the land!
It fills the heart with rapture, soul with bliss;
Ineffable, this piece's loveliness!

Let all the village dodderheads be fine
With shaping gold and gems and other junk
The truly useful trade is surely mine -
The quiet death that comes with poisons drunk!
It's taken days and nights of toil and strife
Of finding lethal creatures unawares
But see! This cocktail brings swift end of life
May all its bearer's craven foes beware!
A simple thing, to cure a toxic sting;
But this fell combination, sure death brings!

The final stitch is sewn through silver silk
The argent robe, now finished, subtly shines.
A noble piece, for kings and kingly ilk
Assembled by these knowing hands of mine!
I, Paavik's seamstress, say without excess:
My finest work is spread before my eyes.
No doubt that all who don it shall impress
When 'tis presented, mine shall be the prize!
Soon I shall rule the Basin at his side -
Not only as his comrade, but his bride!

At last, the sigils, runes, and letters rest
Subdued and tamed, the tattooist's forte!
These glyphs of power, nothing but the best
To be presented to our guest that day.
And spoken words have power, this is true
Such sortilege is also in their form.
By these words' power, strength shall he accrue
Resilience too, to weather hostile storms.
The subtle magic of the tattoos' ink
Makes me a certain victor, I should think.

The day has come, and I my gifts await
How eager is my want to cinch my gain!
The village craftsmen neatly sealed their fate;
With their gifts I'll abscond, the world to reign.
The magic charm compels their loyalty,
And sword and plate persuade those who resist.
The tattoos' spells, untold might grant to me.
Felled by his own draught lies the poisonist!
Within the hour, I make off with the rest;
And with this done...it's off to Delport next!