Aequitas: The Nargolost

Off the long and winding road

There lies a path, though little known.

And off that path, a grove to find,

The home of small, secluded kind.

The Nargolost, they call themselves

The grove their home, where they dwell.

Wise and kind, these small folk are,

And ever seen from afar.

But even then, the mind does trick

The seer into falling sick,

For the Nargolost are no mere folk,

But magical, weaving their yoke.

And should unwary traveller find

Himself amidst this little kind,

He will be welcomed into home,

And feast on meat, ripe from bone.

And should weary traveller stay,

He will wait, day by day

And day will pass, once again,

He will wait some more, but then

Years go by, ere traveller leaves

For that is the magic that they weave.

No memory, beyond their grove,

Will be left, in head, or trove.

So wary must yon traveller be,

If the Nargolost he sees.

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