By: Fig Posted on: November 14, 2005
From the streets of New Thera, walls may be seen,
Flanking the shelves on which knowledge convenes.
Past the doors, the archivist, Nissa, stands,
Welcoming all to the chronicles of the lands.
Tumbling along the warmth of the walls,
Whispered words breathe forth from each hall.
Silent, the Hall of Memoirs sits alone,
Its purpose to even Nissa is unknown.
"The Gods have plans for that," she speaks.
Thus, the hall stays cloaked in mystique.
The Hall of Bardic Lore, the story's art,
Poets and historians, mere shelves apart.
Truth or fables? Only few could know,
But each is a tribute to the wordsmith's glow.
The finest of writers, from first to last,
Their words crafted into tales of the past.
The Hall of Legends, of the shaping of life,
Stories of creation, the beginning of strife.
Ayar, who chose to will Himself into two,
Lords Ayar and Proteus were formed anew.
Maya's children caused the Aldar's divide;
Of this, greatest of wars, the pages confide.
The Hall of Histories, of Callisto and Sinope,
The growth of a race and humanity's hope.
All lives from Nicator to Catarin as one,
In these books are tales of great deeds done.
Paragons not bound by their human flaws,
Words of they who stood for mortals' cause.
All are welcome at this library's door,
To sit and mingle with these scrolls of lore.
The Lucretian Athenaeum, history's home,
The greatness of Sapience, bound in each tome.