In a valley wrapped in mist and memory,
Stands a man who wears the land’s old decree.
He lifts his sword, his heart a trembling flame—
“Freedom is the name I’ll bear until my name is blamed.”
His name is Ash‑Tal, born of rust and rain,
A son of ironfields and a mother’s quiet pain.
He walks the path where banners once flared,
With every step the silent oath he heard.
He speaks to dawn, he calls to night,
For justice to lift such shadowed plight.
When thunder drums, the myth awakes,
The heavens’ roar for freedom’s sake.
The man (Ash‑Tal) and legend’s art combine,
In storm‑lit steel the fate aligns.
The myth’s lightning strikes the heavens’ gate,
The legend’s gears churn and seal the fate.
From clouds of violet and amber blaze,
Rises the god who shapes the sun’s own gaze.
His name is Varkos, thunder’s ancient song,
The wind’s own heart, the world’s unbroken throng.
He watches Ash‑Tal from sky’s far ridge,
The echo of his march within his snatch‑ridge.
“For every man who bears a nation's name,
I shall unleash the storm, and set you free from shame.”
Lightning cracks the heavens, the earth’s hushed sigh,
The thunder god prepares the sky.
Deep beneath the valley’s quiet stream,
Silas weaves machines that dream a dream.
His hands, an alchemy of gears and flame,
Turn sparks to thunder, forge a frame.
He crafts the “Storm‑Catcher,” a device of steel,
Capturing lightning’s pulse to heal the field.
When thunder’s rage comes roaring close,
Silas channels power with a careful dose.
At night the battle drums, the earth quivers—
Ash‑Tal’s army with eyes that shiver.
Varkos’ lightning arcs across the black,
Silas’ iron heart beats a new track.
Ash‑Tal leaps with metal blade,
Silas fires the storm, the night unmade.
The thunder roared, the heavens bared,
The legend’s steel and mythically flared.
When thunder drums, the myth awakes,
The heavens’ roar for freedom’s sake.
The man (Ash‑Tal) and legend’s art combine,
In storm‑lit steel the destiny aligns.
The myth’s lightning strikes the heavens’ gate,
The legend’s gears grind hard, they don’t wait.
So sing the fields, the sky’s own hymn,
Where man, myth, and legend begin.
A tale of heart, a storm, a spark—
Three souls together, striking dark.
