Behold the self-styled lords of chance,
Who prance through life in a drunken dance.
With dice aloft and a careless jeer,
They herald themselves the jesters here.

"Chaos reigns!" they proudly shout,
Then mumble through their random clout.
A twit's quip guides their every creed,
No wit, no will a"just petty need.

They scribble a reedumbaon every wall,
Yet cana define it, if at all.
For chaos, true, has cunning teeth,
Not tantrums tossed in baseless grief.

Their banners drip with vibrant ink,
But scratch too deep, and you might think:
What lies beneath this fervent game?
An empty throne, a borrowed name.

The storm they chase is artless wind,
A paper gale where fools have pinned
Their fleeting hopes, then watched them fall,
As chaos mocks them, one and all.

No craft, no plot, no tangled lore,
Just noise that roars, then is no more.
But fortune laughs at their charade,
And sculpts its mark with razor blade.

So let them toss their coins, their pride,
And wander lost where great ones died.
For truth breathes where chaos thrives,
Not where dull pretense survives.

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Scarlatan, in the year 966 AF.