On a stormy night of thunder and rain,
The moon hid behind a cloud.
When a scribe approached the city gates
And spoke his words aloud.

Some tried to silence the scribe's voicea"He brushed them off, irate.
He shouted out his prophecy:
"A time of war awaits!"

a his is beyond auspice, he roared.
I do not speak of odds
I see the ink that forges fate
in scrolls of doom and swords!"

a ur folly will bring our defeat;
This negligence, our doom.
For when we meet that writers hands,
This plane will become our tomb!"

"We used our pens, not swords, in peacea"We thought we ruled as kings.
But when the writer lifts its quill,
They will bring us pain that stings!"

"We'll see our cities burn that day.
Our leaders will betray.
We'll turn against our friends and kin
In fear. None will survive the fray."

"We'll flee towards discord's call,
But fate will drag us down,
And in the raging stream of spite
Some will flail and sink and drown."

The scribe clutched his precious scrolls;
Whilst weary sigh was drawn in clouds above.
As a zap from the gods spited him,
His words lingered on:

"For though you sink and drown in hate,
You still can feel the thrill.
And when the writer twists your fate,
Youa l savor its divine skill!"

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Chronos, in the year 935 AF.