Sons of Bailto harken!
The long years pass like leaves blown in the autumn wind,
Dry are the bones of the founding sires of Ilyrion
Iron citadel of the High Kings in Beltain.
Listen to the lay of Acanthion, squire to Vir Na’ Maeglos,
Bard to the fair court of Caer-Eiras,
Renowned seat of beauty, a refuge of learning and song –
Proud fortress of the son of Maeglos, King Celin’s loyal thane.
This vassal, a true son of the Beltoi, of the line of Gerion
Mighty hero of the north, was named Vir the Deliverer
By the druid Arandir, at the bequest of the gods.
Scarcely more than a foundling, in war and hunting Vir proved his valour.
No small part did he play in the dreadful conflict
That had lain waste to the land for countless decades,
When the dread hosts of Usir, like locusts arose from the south.
A curse took the land, borne by dark sorcery –
No corn-eve ripened in the harvest sun,
The life-bequeathing streams and rivers of the field
Became as beds of clay.
Silent were the counsels of Celin, mighty king in Ilyrion
When the warlock-lord had the advantage,
That summoner of demons – scion of fallen Acheron;
Dread shrouds the name of Amthras-Dhu.
Amongst the battle-wains of Beltain, Vir earned renown
When heralded he was as the scion of Maeglos,
For his swift blade, warrior’s prowess and measureless courage
Which hurled him god-like into the throes of battle…