From mortal man to divine god,
His journey was one long.
He fought for freedom’s followers,
Against those wroth and wrong.
For countless days he stayed enslaved
And waited for his time.
He met while there an elven wretch,
Sullied with sin and grime,
And side by side they dueled with fate,
Their swords and bows in hand.
The bloody clash was scarcely won,
That, you must understand–
He worked and fought for what he had,
His land, his fame, his gold.
Not once was e’er he granted ease,
Not by the gods of old.
For they, you see, resented he,
Who sought to take their throne.
Thus mighty sir Inquisitorb
Was forced to hie alone.
From Fort Joy all to Lucian’s tomb,
He practiced, trained, prepared.
Bearing his stalwart dwarven blade,
He never poorly fared.
Through men and beasts did cleave.
With every grand and deadly strike,
A tale its blade did weave.
His foes always their ends did greet,
Thus was it Braccus fell.
Out from the hand of our new God
Was cast the gallant spell:
A tentacle lashed forth from he,
and struck it Braccus true.
Out of the mouth of our hero,
A “Brac no mag!” quick flew.
To Lord Inquisitorb’s great shock,
Concurrent with his words,
Another voice did cry out twin:
A “Brac no mag!” to gird.
Thus Braccus was encircled by
A call from every side,
As down he went, he screamed with rage,
Then promptly coughed and died.
So goes the tale of our lord’s rise,
From slave to mighty god.
For bravery we worship he
Who blazed the path we trod.