- [i]The Conceit of Prophecy[/i] - 

A bardic song thought to have been written during the closing days of the Era of Heroes, during the life of the Prophetess. The written score and lyrics were discovered within a subterranean barrow in the Republic of Vitium. According to notation accompanying the score, it was written by an individual who identified themselves as a 'Questor of Matathran,' no such land or region is known to have ever existed in Askor, and likewise 
no such title or profession is known to have ever existed.

The song is intended to be played on a six-stringed lute in (quite unusually) Aeolian Mode, with notation indicating the piece's nature as tavern or campfire music. The lyrics are written in a mocking and derisive tone and as though addressed to a specific, individual, unknown listener. Contemporary scholars theorize the piece to be a form of political commentary, and agree that although the notion of Prophecy features prominently within the song's topic, the Prophetess is likely not the song's subject or intended recipient - further confusing the possible date the original score may have been written.

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[i]Let it never be said you were not warned,
Let it never be said they did not keep their word.
Here you lie, lain low and torn,
Still ignorant of what you heard.

You were warned there would be death,
But why heed the conceit of prophecy?
And yet alas you take your final breath
Perhaps the prophet knew better than thee.

Your death was not a natural thing,
No native fit of age or fear.
Hear the lornful calls of your own house,
Who cry the prophecy's conceit was dear.

The prophet spoke to thee of bravery,
Of how brazenly you bore
Your coward's heart upon thy sleeve,
That your doom was hence assured.
For how could such a witless heel
Shore up a crumbling world?

You were warned there would be death,
But why heed the conceit of prophecy?
And yet alas you take your final breath
Perhaps they knew better than thee.

And who was this loon,
This dire fool,
Who foresaw an end that loomed?
What conceit did the prophet bear,
To think that their word was dear?

Did you think fate might be denied,
Confusing indolence for favor?
Did you think your choice was mercy,
That you could steer the tides of nature?
Did you think your life was hale,
Whilst your form became as vapor?

You were warned there would be death,
But why heed the conceit of prophecy?
And yet alas you take your final breath
Perhaps they knew better than thee.

Now your works are but tattered dreams;
Your only legacy is their own word complete.
A coward you are, with your coward's reward,
While the prophet's joy is now replete.

Do not protest or beg of no fault of your own,
For no poison was sowed, no enemies known,
You ripped out the roots beneath your own lands,
And your neighbors decry the work of your hands.
The land was hearty and ripe for the harvest,
But all the fruits of your labor were trod on and tarnished.
Without cultivation endeavored with care,
The growth of the land withered and vanished,
Under your coward's hand and your coward's stare.

You were warned there would be death,
But why heed the conceit of prophecy?
And yet alas you take your final breath
Perhaps they knew better than thee.[/i]