Arvyl’s Doom

All that rises must fall, all that gleams will rust,

All that glitters by the sea shall crumble to dust.

Once-bright spires wave tattered remnants,

Gloryngael echoes with noble decadence.

The Pearl Throne sits empty, absent sons of Thar,

A new future for the City of the Golden Star.

In one year or ten thousand, only the Seeress may say,

But the price of Folly must be paid oneday.


Look for the signs, when the poor can’t be counted,

Look for the signs, when the throne must be doubted.

Five signs for the watchful, harbingers of the end,

Heralding a hero, as the Prophecies portend.


A long leaned crutch of confidence, kicked aside.

A strand slimmer than hair, stronger than steel, severed.

A roaring sea protesting betrayal, offended.


When the Crone yields to the Maiden

And spring comes to midwinter,

Honey shall kiss the earth

And flowers bloom like treasure.


The taint of shadows, born of arrogance and pride,

Drowning in madness, with blood at his side.

In swirling chaos, the curse doth prevail,

And the corona of blue doth finally fail.


In time of need, Sangrithar’s darkest hour,

A hero shall come bearing thrice-folded power.

Born on the wings of yesteryear’s grace,

Warrior, prince, priestess – a familiar face.


The Pearl Throne sits empty, two last sons of Thar.

Wielding power that harkens from the time of Jahar.

A champion of shadow, forged in fires of secrecy,

A twisted viper, wrapped in newfound divinity,

His opposite a finely honed weapon of Prophecy,

Drawn into battle by unwanted Necessity.

Clashing like gods in a battle of molten fire,

Cutting deep scars that cry for Nyllen’s lyre.

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