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Edwin Hale

In the quiet halls of learning, where the candles burned down low, Lived Edwin Hale with ink-stained hands and thoughts that moved too slow. A wizard trained in careful lines, in pigments, frost, and sand, He painted truth in patient strokes most others couldn’t stand. While others chased the thunderbolt or flame that split the sky, Edwin learned the weight of things, and watched the moments pass him by. A portrait stared from plastered walls, its eyes too sharp, too wise, As if it saw the road ahead long before Edwin’s eyes. He heard the call not as a shout, but as a page mislaid, A letter that did not belong, a debt that wasn’t paid. The Wayhouse waited out of sight, where footpaths overlap, A door that opens only when the world forgets your map. He packed his dyes and bits of glass, his charcoal, salt, and thread, Left one last canvas unfinished, words unspoken, paint unsaid. For something in the silence asked for witnesses, not kings, For hands that knew how truth survives when memory breaks its wings. Oh Edwin Hale, with steady hand, You crossed where no one planned, Not drawn by glory, coin, or fame, But by the questions left unnamed. In Thalavar where stories thin, Where ink decides who stays, You stepped inside the fading lines And signed your name in gray. The ledger opened, ink ran wrong, a name was torn away, And Edwin saw the paint turn wet where it had dried that day. A creature born of error rose, a stroke that should not be, And frost leapt forth from Edwin’s palm to still what shouldn’t be. He did not shout, he did not boast, he did not curse the dark, He measured distance, chose his line, and left a careful mark. For even when the world corrupts, when truth begins to blur, It takes a patient eye to see what still belongs to her. When blood ran thin and allies fell and ink stained fur and stone, He knelt to gather remnants, proof that nothing stands alone. “What kind of ink is this?” he asked, as curiosity won through, For every stain tells part a tale if someone dares pursue. Now paths have closed and others wait where once a door stood clear, And Edwin walks with quiet steps where gods themselves might fear. A painter of the unseen lines, a scholar of the thin, He charts the cost of being known… and being written in. Oh Edwin Hale, with steady hand, You crossed where no one planned, Not drawn by glory, coin, or flame, But by the truths you’d understand. In Thalavar where names decay, Where your soul slips away, You hold the brush, you hold the line, And choose what truth can stay. So sing of frost and fading ink, of ledgers left ajar, Of one who knew that watching well Can change the world by far.