O, kindred of the blood and night,
And undead children of the soil,
We're here this day to praise the fight
Of Abhorash and His long toil.

From humble years within the East,
He rose up to His fate embrace:
The power of the Blood release,
And also thus His Strength and grace.

The Underking, the bodiless,
Who'd keep us shackled unto death,
And serve His realm as we protest
With every cursed, living breath,

Had over us a certain hold,
But through Abhorash we release
Ourselves with choices firm and bold:
This servitude might now surcease

For He His gift to us bestowed,
The Royal Houses known to all --
And that, beside this warm abode,
Has made an Empire ne'er to fall.

And if He chose upon His fame
To rest and nothing else achieve,
The world would yet still know His name:
His progeny grant no reprieve

To pawns of Spirit, slaves of Dhar,
Or any who their Strength oppose:
Alas to those who, near or far,
Are counted as among their foes!

And yet, He set His gifted sight
On Iosyne, in Her demise.
Behold! With clever eyes alight,
He engineered His final rise.

Where others saw a shattered form,
He saw the final link in chain,
And having weathered every storm,
Long live Him thus: e'er shall He reign!



Penned by my hand on Falsday, the 21st of Variach, in the year 506 MA.