Upon the Red Isle, where the storm-clouds seethe,
We carved our Empire, not with ease, but with teeth.
Through blood-soaked trials and fire's demand,
We claimed dominion with unyielding hand.

You, who jeer from your gilded halls,
Two cities, one crown - no struggle, no brawls.
Empires granted like gifts from a god,
Yet you lack the strength to walk where we trod.

Twice the numbers you send to the fray,
Yet twice you falter, your pride in decay.
For Mhaldor stands where weaker hearts yield,
The Truths our banner, our piety our shield.

Speak of cowardice? Look to your throng -
A sea of faces, yet no soul strong.
Your unity born not of might, but of fear,
Scattered like chaff when the Malefic draws near.

Our sins, you call them, with trembling breath,
But sin is the forge where power meets death.
We slaughter not aimless, but for the design,
Each blow we strike makes our purpose divine.

You worship a freedom devoid of a spine,
A chaos unbound, a rot in decline.
We worship Malice, His Truths for the world,
Our iron will as the banner unfurled.

The cracks you see are the fear in your eyes,
For our Empire fell, yet Evil still thrives.
The Malevolent reigns, His Truths endure,
And through His will, our purpose is pure.

So tremble, weakling, and count your breath,
For Evil endures where all else meets death.
The Malevolent guides us; His Truths remain,
And your hollow boasts are spoken in vain.



Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Ero, in the year 966 AF.