Wouldst, such mortal
traverse the crags of
Ne'ermere tails, tis a
grayest hour whence
Luna's twilight flits
her crown whipped
freed of mnemonic
shimmers.
Hail winds bade the
cliffs fond too well,
the forest dwelleth
quietude, erring not
to wake ired beasts.
The Black fog rose
amidst digits crag,
gorging deeply in
a slithering bout,
its murky poking
hazing to edge's
where hast steep
crevices befallen
debris burdens.
Forgiven enemies
miserably hast to
but exclaim vapid
excuse faltering,
absent of morals
that yield despair
heightens.
Invasive spirit's of
Ne'ermere hatha
steered lost souls
to the steppes, to
the moors.
The ambling blood
moon followed a
selection of bane
thoust chose for
dying, fast coming.
Inky's inscript on
columbine petals
are guarded riddle,
steeped in thine
devil's brew of
concoctions.
Constant a stirring
from tri-conjurers
and duo warlocks
of ruin, loss, and
havoc--locals all
of Ne'ermere.
A daring wraith
bidst the gifts
amassed of
bless souls, the
voids of trifled
entities of a
doomsday.
Shortening the
navigated souls
in their mortal
state of decay,
their tenuous
grasp of wilted
massive fibrous
veins.
Remnants of a
vigorous life
surrender to
their authentic
demise via a
hall between
perishing slow
or death's blow.
Truly, a proper
act of granting
reassemblage
their formers,
Earth's finality
prompt sail to
the sunrise of
the ancients,
and a warriors
welcoming.