In shadow’s age, when warlocks reigned,
And blood was coin in lands profaned,
A Kobold rose from ash and chain
Kederigan, of fire and bane.
He fought beneath the Dark Lord’s hand,
A minion bound by cursed command,
Through fields of ruin, skies of flame,
He bore the mark; he bore the shame.
The war was lost. The light prevailed.
The warlock fell, his fortress veiled.
Kederigan fled with kin to stone,
To starve in caves, to die unknown.
But silence broke, a new voice called
Another warlock, black and bald,
With dragons bound in iron rings,
And goblins crowned as lesser kings.
Again, the minions marched to fight,
Through orcish rage and mage-born light,
Through centaur charge and satyr song,
They fought, they bled, alas victory gone.
This time, Kederigan did not flee.
He turned from fate, from prophecy.
He barred the gates of mountain keep,
And swore no war would make him weep.
The fortress stood, a jagged scar,
Between the realms of light and dark.
The armies came, the siege began,
But found no warlock, found no plan.
The mages of the light withdrew,
Their cause dissolved, their purpose through.
The dragons wheeled, the ravens cried,
And Kederigan watched them glide
Then rose the third, the final shade,
A warlock born of bone and blade.
He called the minions, called the horde,
But Kederigan broke the chord.
He rallied dwarfs with hammer’s song,
And elves with bows both swift and long.
He called the humans, brave and worn,
And forged a pact in battle sworn.
The goblins turned, the orcs betrayed,
The centaurs charged with hooves arrayed.
The satyrs danced to darker drums,
But Kederigan would not succumb.
He led his kin through fire and storm,
Through shattered spells and twisted forms.
He faced the warlock, eye to eye,
And struck him down beneath the sky.
The mountain roared. The silence broke.
The chains of fate began to smoke.
The minions cheered, the light stood still,
And Kederigan bent fate to will.
No longer slave, no longer pawn,
He claimed the land; he claimed the dawn.
The Kobolds crowned him mountain king,
And peace became a living thing.
So, sing, O bards, of minion’s war,
Of Kederigan, who asked for more.
Not death, not flight, not cursed command
But honour, fire, and rightful land.