[centre][img]https://i.imgur.com/ZZ7IHOU.png?1[/img][h3]from:[/h3] [h1]The Lay of Cura[/h1][/centre]

[centre]...
And when the night was full and black
And not a plant was there
And all of Vandengard the Black
Had filled the world with fear,
When on our earth the troll was come
And all the winds were fled,
When then the songs and singers, dumb,
Thought all was done and dead;
Did Cura's eye fill up with tears?
Did he then tremble, fall?
Or did he, like the god that steers
The skies, rise up before the troll?
Oh Cura brave! Oh Cura great!
Oh Cura of the shouting leg!
Oh Cura who wrestled with fate
And made it wail and beg!
Why, Cura rose when all were down
He stood before the horde
And he, a king without a crown,
Was then a raised and unsheathed sword
That brought the wild troll low!
That brought him low and made him stone
From which a tree burst forth to grow
And stands there, still, alone.
So when you pass that living rock
That marks our Cura's stand
And where all plantkind e'en now flock
Then fall on face and hand!
Yes fall on face and hand and pray
In gratitude for dawn of day
And Cura! - who showed light the way![/centre]

[hider=Summary]Extract from one of the poems mentioned by Cura when he said, “Listen Phoria, the stories are told by bards who weren’t there, you know? Loonies who have given their sanity to the waves in the sky. You can’t trust them.”[/hider]