The Ballad of Sir Ibram Thane

The Ballad of Sir Ibram Thane
In lands of lore and ancient halls, Where shadows stretched on castle walls, A name is sung, both bold and vain: The cunning knight, Sir Ibram Thane.
No quest too dire,no foe too dread, No winding road his feet not tread. Through storm and sun, through fire and rain, A thousand tales mark Ibram Thane.
A Knight of Many Colors
Unlike the solemn knights of yore, Who marched in silver, stern and sure, Thane donned a coat of patchwork hue, Each thread a tale, each color true.
His helm, a prize from a wyvern's hoard, His blade, the Fang of the Fallen Lord. Yet oft he fought with wit alone, For battles won need not bloodstone.
The Slayer of Beasts
Where dens of darkness dared to brood, There Ibram ventured, bold of mood. He faced the Chimera in its lair, With naught but a torch and a single prayer.
The Basilisk’s gaze he deftly turned, With mirrors forged where magic burned. And when the Kraken crushed a fleet, He tied its limbs with cunning feat.
Tales of Eccentricity
Though brave, his ways oft spurred debate, For Thane was a man both odd and great. He’d crash a ball with a dragon’s plume, And charm his hosts to spare their doom.
In royal courts, his antics bold, Would break the stiffest hearts of gold. He’d teach the king’s own courtly guard To duel with spoons—for battle’s art.
The Campaigners’ Guide to High Society
When wars had waned and swords grew still, Thane sought a craft to match his will. He penned the "Guide" for knights of fame, To teach old hands new tricks of game.
“How to dine without your shield, And which fork serves the proper field. Dance steps, discourse, a measured bow— The art of charm, I teach you now.”
Yet comedies sprung where Thane’s words led, As campaigners tried what they had read. A knight mistook a goblet’s rim, For battle’s edge and drank on whim.
Another wooed a noble’s bride, With metaphors from rivers wide. “The current’s strength is like my heart— It sweeps us to the lover’s part!”
A Legacy Beyond Life
Long after his name grew still in song, His books appeared, their wisdom strong. Volumes found in towers high, Or buried where old legends lie.
Each tome a mix of jest and lore, A treasure trove for rich and poor. For Ibram’s voice, though gone in flesh, Lives on in pages, bold and fresh.
The Knight Immortal
And so we raise a cup of wine, To honor Thane, both wry and fine. A knight who’d laugh in shadow’s face, And teach the world with wit and grace.
From treasure vaults to courtly halls, From dragon’s lair to noble balls, His tales endure, as bright as flame, The endless song of Ibram Thane.