| Mikeytt | dinsdag 16 september 2025 @ 17:14 |
| By moonless night and shadowed breath, I call the chill of ancient death. Let roots grow twisted, let stars turn black, May all who pass not wander back. Let winds wail cold, let skies weep red, Let restless spirits walk the dead. Till dawn shall quake and noon shall fade, This land shall dwell in cursed shade. |