An Aisling returned.
Grayed, his step encumbered.
Yet a spark endured within his soul.
One more adventure, one left to be told

Whence once as black ink, crowned upon legends,
Now but an unfamiliar face among the taverns.
To go alone is to do but to die,
But who shall gift this Aisling, if not their time?

In Pravat's depths, where idle voices linger,
Stood a wizard, mighty in spell and insight.
"Go forth and gather the goods that two may well require,
I have walked this road before, I'll walk it with you entire"

Into Shinewood they ventured, their gaze upon the Creant,
His hands quivered, but not the wizard's.
Through the bough of the forest, and through they threaded,
Their pace slow, yet steadfast and true.

'Til forest gave way to a radiant hue.
If an Aisling returned - might his strength return too?
To stand in thought - though only a breath,
That one breath astray.
And all seemed lost that day.
.
.
.
But through steadfast will and joined resolve,
The Creant broke, but victory strained.
Each breath was ragged, each strike near spent,
And weariness weighed as heavy as triumph.

The spoils they gathered, glittering in its splendor.
The wizard smiled, his voice unrendered.
He pressed his share into the old Aisling's hands,
Without hesitation, whispered,
"That was the plan all along."

The old Aisling froze, breath caught in his chest.
No words would come, only the weight of years -
A thousand memories flashed before his eyes.
For in that moment he was struck to the bone -
Not by the Creant, but by kindness.

No coin, no crown, could match its weight-
A kindness, softly sown.
And in that gift, the old Aisling
Became oneself anew.