The dark night casts its shadow across broken lands,
from frozen peaks to bottomless gorge,
sifting between the cracks
towards the unknowing kingdoms three below.
They await dawn in silence,
for the new day is a curse
no matter the victor or promised spoils.
The great Kings fail to dream,
an ignorance of their heavy eyes as hearts beat uneasy,
words of warning echo,
but turning back is worse than death itself.
The prize stands tall,
the Mountain of Quinwol,
older than the seas and the sun, so the Lords say,
where the Gods themselves called it home.
Through light and dark,
myst and shadow, they came
upon the unknown rock as it drifted,
here and there,
amongst the stars, alone,
and shaped it from their knowledge of life.
Many songs are sung,
of Quinwol, the spark of creation,
a prize that defines a Kingdom
and makes a man of a King,
or King in waiting.
So Kingdoms fight their battles,
to claim the power of Quinwol as their own
whilst spilling blood of enemies numerous.
Now a new war awaits,
Kings prepare for what forefather's failed to see,
of bitter winds and beating sun
that boils the blood of the dead
and blows away what ash remains.
But there's indifference,
a strange chill in the air,
as the true enemy of Kingdoms three awaits,
unbeknownst, in wait,
for the right time to strike
and to claim Quinwol in the name of the true Lord.
May death be swift,
to those who dare not fight.