Come, and listen to these words in verse;
the tragic tale of the tonberry's curse.
Look back upon the ancient people of Nym
with scholars aplenty giving breath to life's wind.
But the scholar's art too soon came undone;
a plague arose from which none could run.
It corrupted their flesh, all down to the bone,
and those who it touched were cast out from their home.
Their forms became twisted, hobbled and green;
their friends showed no mercy and deemed them unclean.
A great Palace was raised then, a cage for their kin;
'twas sent to Lord Oschon, so they might forget their sin.
Locked away in this temple, this lodge of internment,
their anger and rage grew more and more urgent.
Hundreds of years passed, and one rose to anchor-
the Tonberry King, holding the Curse of their Rancor.
They languished in rage, minds held only by threads,
and all who disturbed them were torn into shreds.
Their knowledge did fade, their hopes long passed;
until here, in our age, we revisited the past.
The Palace was found, holding mystery and more;
with no thought for safety, some opened the door.
They went in for adventure, they went in for pleasure;
they sought tales of glory, they sought out more treasure.
They fought through the Palace, foes crowding he halls,
and faced down the King to ensure his fall.
Their swords bit his flesh, their spells burned his skin,
and when all was done he would not rise again.
With their fount of rage dead, the scholars minds became clear;
they looked on the ruins of what once they held dear.
The world did not want them, they knew this for fact;
so they closed palace doors, wanting no more attacks.
There they stay to this day, alone in their palace-
their shared grief and loss their only solace.