The dark, the blindness of night.
This draws on apace, no promise of day anew.
Throughout the land it is feared,
The anger, the sorrow, in it the death
Tempered by a cadaverous bloom that has appeared.
The touch of Lim-Dul has removed the hue
Turning bright into blight.
Dying is the land,
Damned is the future, forever gone is hope.
Directly forth is the end.
It rises from the deep,
Infernal and spectral.
It is the tower of Tresserhorn;
In it lives this evil, devil, aboriginal.
Irreplaceable is the governor, the Lord: each have their keep.
Lamenting the loss of their master,
Lim-Dul, their god.
Leshrac, their creator.
Listen, the undead, praise their master in laud.
Learning, making opal from alabaster.
Speaks their creator, all listen: Will not the mountains quake and hills melt at the coming of the darkness?
Share this vision with your enemies, Lim-Dul, and they
Shall listen wither.
Swarm the Kjeldorans and the Kingdom of Trokair at the gates.
Shun hither,
Soon, the unfortunate shall lay
Situated as Tresserhorn’s likeness.
Leshrac, my liege, grant me the power I am due.
Lim-Dul, gaining superiority.
Luckless are the living, the standing, the few.
In the likeness of their creator, the patrol standing guard
Is skeletal and fragile like an ox-beast.
Imperfect is their design, but what, one may ask when
In awe of their numbers,
Is this deviltry that the dead may rise again to see the day
In its splendor?
Infuriated, we ask them then:
Is it that you are so vain that you think that life once is the least?
It is that we are the sheet, and our creator the bard.
Incensed, the Holy of the swarm repent:
It is you that are the ones who are written and let
It not be forgotten, for
If we were to break Leshrac’s quill,
It would fall unto our Mercy.
It is you who are vain and nil.
Integrity have us, and we fight in God’s lore.
It is to your demise that we have met,
It will be our honor when your souls to our God we have sent.
Pacify this land.
Pray with me a new beginning.
Please your minds with visions of wins:
Press forth to a new day.
Pardon those for their sins,
Prove to these that the side of God is that of the winning.
Prodigal sorcerer, gather close and aide in the destruction Lim-Dul’s band!
Now the fighting begins.
Nearing the Holy, the Legions of Lim-Dul.
Nine go under, all of them white.
None go down, those of Tresserhorn.
Nineteen in all now, all leaving with a fight,
None in vain, though, for vain men die not at the hand of a ghoul.
No, but at the graveness of their sins.
All are lost in this great war.
And now does life have a chance to reemerge.
And now does life have a chance to lift Lim-Dul’s mar.