The Prophecy of Ynnead

The God of the Dead Calls out.
A whisper so fierce and strong
The children of the bloody spear.
Gather unto them the dead.
The banshee lost and listless
Will gather and cry as one
Lambent glow becomes shining beacon.
Death knell rises to the herald’s cry.
The blackened shield becomes the sword.
The yawning void becomes the path.
The sea of stars cleansed of darkness.
In the heat of the crucible, our sorrow will be reforged.
Destiny becomes a weapon fit to slay a god.
In the pallid moon of unremembered voices shall turn into a sun.
Lit by the flames of unjust wars a crucible of souls reignites.
The children shall walk the forked path, a threefold truth:
Nemesis of T'Tousand
Reweaver of fates,
Keeper of shadow and secrets
Guided to the garden of dreams
Through the house of blood and mithral
Long dead souls gather behind
The rebirth of ancient Days,
drinking, but not consuming;
Taking in, but giving new life.
Like ghouls in the dark,
the wicked ones gather,
drawn to a tragedy unfolding.
A warning twice-given across the span of time, Stifled by pride and hatred.
The strands of fate shall grow taut at the dawn of the final war.
The death of all looms large,
but fate can be twisted, even broken.