Broken blades, and broken helms,
are washed by the breaking waves,
Sounds of shattered dreams o'erwhelms
the mind,is nought but a watery grave.

Fire and stone, blood and thunder
Hatred burns above the reek,
Iron and fire cleaves all asunder,
Crimes remembered as he speaks.

Doom is dealt, and doom has won,
The dice are rolled, and fate claims all,
Into the halls are gathered the Firstborn,
And the Strangers gather to their own hall.

Hate and ruination, it all leads to an end,
The reward? Death, with glory alone,
It'll be thus forever, and doom never bends,
So be prepared to taste bitter the glory you won.



Wyrd bid ful aræd......

_________________
"This is the hour of the Shire-folk, when they arise from their quiet fields to shake the towers and counsels of the Great. Who of all the Wise could have foreseen it? Or, if they are wise, why should they expect to know it, until the hour has struck? "