In Cylos’ heart, where shadows dwell,
A tale of yore I’m bound to tell.
Among the ruins of a city’s spine,
A figure lurks in alley’s line.
Young Veros, artist, seeker of truth,
Hovers o’er the drunken sleuth.
Beaten, battered, left in shame,
For cheating those in dishonest game.
On an empty crate, Veros sat,
Object in hand, where shadows spat.
“Shall I capture you, here in plight,
Or shape your visage in better light?”
The merchant, Juekelim, groggy and torn,
Turns to Veros, prideful and worn.
“What did you say? Who are you, knave?
To think you skillful, oh how brave!”
Veros’ object wriggles, a sight to see,
A grimace forms, as he sets it free.
“Skill I may lack, to capture thee right,
But art I’ll craft, in this night.”
“Ha! No skill compares to mine,
In Merchantry, my prowess does shine!
Insult me not, you lowly cur,
I’ll have you banished, that’s for sure!”
With a smile wide, Veros speaks,
“Keep that face, those angry peaks.”
The object stills, its form now set,
A merchant’s rage, he won’t forget.
“Oh now, you mock my merchant grace?
Think I smell gold in this place?”
With rage, he points, his finger shakes,
While Veros molds, his art he makes.
A bust he spins, the face agape,
In mid-rage, a drunken shape.
“That’s art,” he claims, a final tease,
While Juekelim falls to his knees.
“How dare you insult with horrid depiction,
Of Merchant people, a vile affliction!”
He calls for guards with pain and fear,
A siren’s yell, shrill and clear.
A guard arrives, sees Veros perched,
Art in hand, the merchant cursed.
“What’s happening here?” the guard inquires,
As the bust jumps ‘round, like lively fires.
“This man,” Juekelim cries, in a sobbing fit,
“Hates Merchants, he mocks and spits!
Look at the horror he’s made of me,
A Merchant hater, as you can see!”
Veros stands, calm and cool,
“This merchant sought my art, like a fool.
Now unhappy, he cries and weeps,
Plays the victim, while his anger seeps.”
“Liar!” Juekelim roars with might,
As the bust blows raspberries, a mocking sight.
Tears flow down in streams of pain,
While Veros’ calm face does remain.
The guard, with a sigh, assesses the scene,
To the Merchant, with a tone so keen,
“You’ve caused trouble here before,
Calm yourself, or pay, and more.”
“Pay!? To this artist, never!” he yells,
“I’ll leave this city, where trouble dwells.
I’ll tell the Council of your deeds,
And wrath of Merchants will surely seed!”
Veros turns, disdain in his eyes,
“No need for his money, soaked in lies.”
With a wink to Juekelim, subtle and sly,
He walks away, with a final sigh.
The guard chuckles, a nod he gives,
As Veros ventures where the city lives.
Past buildings, half-built, sorrow’s mark,
In search of peace, from morning till dark.
A call he hears, a civilian’s plea,
“Veros, help, hear me, please!”
“My boy is lost, by river’s stream,
Four days now, lost in dream.”
Veros, with a brow raised high,
“Four days gone, now you cry?
Did guards not come to mind before,
Your child’s safety, you ignore?”
“He’s a good lad, never stray,
I’ve been busy, healing all day.
Please, Veros, find my son,
Your help, I need, for he’s the one.”
With a sigh, Veros agrees,
“Downstream or up?” he queries.
“Down,” the civilian points with dread,
As Veros heads where waters tread.
Down the river, Veros walks,
Nature’s music, as the stream talks.
Honeyed air, lavender’s grace,
Bees and creatures, a gentle place.
Leafs like velvet, birds in song,
Veros’ steps, gentle and long.
Till laughter breaks the nature’s peace,
Voices of youth, as sounds increase.
A glance he gives, casual and light,
“Seen a kid? Lost from sight?”
Confused, the youth replies,
“No child here, under skies.”
Veros shrugs, his search resumes,
Hand in bushes, for art he looms.
Tracks he finds, scattered and faint,
Children’s prints, a story paint.
“More than one?” he muses aloud,
As a homunculus follows, humble and proud.
Head too large, with eyes askew,
It waddles, with a coo.
“Hiauu,” it moans, a funny sight,
Veros chuckles, in nature’s light.
A shed appears, suspicious, near,
“Check it out,” he sends with cheer.
Homunculus, eager, heads to the door,
A bump, a crash, then ground it bore.
Gunther emerges, large and stout,
“Who’s there?” he shouts, with doubt.
“Hail!” calls Veros, calm and steady,
“Chasing a pet, not quite ready.
Seen anyone, or anything strange,
Through these woods, in recent range?”
Gunther, confused, gives a thought,
“Several pass, but not a lot.
Four days gone, a child you seek?
Maaksharth, perhaps, young and meek.”
“Know him well?” Veros inquires,
“Curious boy, helps with my desires.
Straight path home, if river’s near,
Legends only, cause real fear.”
“Old one eye, last bear’s tale,
But such myths often fail.”
Veros, ponders, then he speaks,
“No signs of struggle, no danger reeks.”
Gunther leads to a hole, small and tight,
“A venture spot, but could cause fright.”
Veros peers, rock tossed in,
To hear if deep, or short within.
A whimper he hears, faint and small,
Something stirs, at a whisper’s call.
A worm-like homunculus he sends,
To check the den, where darkness bends.
Gunther, shocked, sees the act,
A creature jumps, fierce, intact.
A badger snarls, in defensive stance,
Veros’ homunculus, quick advance.
Distraction made, Gunther saved,
Veros to den, he bravely braved.
Through the tight, earthy squeeze,
Searching for the boy with ease.
Tracks and dirt, but no lad found,
Veros retreats, to forest ground.
Gunther, victorious, badger slain,
Back to shed, to seek the main.
Within the shed, a grisly sight,
A ritual circle, bodies tight.
Boy’s head central, blood around,
Candles lit, a mournful sound.
Veros, disgusted, ties Gunther fast,
Questions asked, till truth amassed.
“An experiment failed, in grief,
Lost my son, sought belief.”
Veros’ decision, harsh and grim,
Gunther’s choice, to end within.
Plant DNA, a final blend,
Human to tree, his life did end.
Returning to town, book in hand,
Veros seeks justice, in this land.
Guards alerted, truth revealed,
Child’s fate, now unconcealed.
Xylander, in shock, arrested fast,
Veros’ tale, a shadow cast.
Cyrus, curious, watches near,
As Veros departs, with no fear.
Justice served, amidst the ruins,
Veros leaves, as the day nears.
An artist’s path, a seeker’s quest,
In Cylos’ heart, shadows rest.