[Upon our earthly plain of green, a flickering passing of light, then silence, seemingly everlasting silence. Has it come?]
Transcend...the dawn...
Arriving north cold white snow wind...
My fingers tremble, not the cold but their wish, frightful in fear, can I use as I used to?
"Resounding sound of wizardry...upon the white my sign of life, a mighty blow towards the skies, all that matter have heard my return.
Walk towards the south, journey long in this cold outside, the burning darklight beats me, the Flame of Chaos and Order, head for the lightningsdome, the Weiliaon waits."
A streak of wood upon the unrelial road, [a crow,] its glittering glance looking my way...
The Crow: "If it were my own choice, I would not be here, wise traveller, for my ears enjoy the clinging of the swords [more], and the quiet afterwards...where another feast awaits."
Nirion: "What brings you to this desolationscape [then]? Is it premonnition of doom, or do you bring wise advise so that I may outlive myself again?"
The Crow: "Kraa, no, none of those, I bring thee a reminder of what has been told afore, thine destiny concerns us all, and the message I bear comes from the Kizara of H'hen, he bids thee to live in peace and not to cut the festers and unhealed sores of our world open with thine mighty sword. For the gore that will drip when thee doth so, is too porfull for even thine mighty sword to master. And I know that I for me have no special bond , I return no message, nor do I consent with his. I deliver, and that is all I do."
Nirion: "[Ah,] raven of black eloquence, your tongue be filled with deceit and that I enjoy, return to thine beloved battlefields and know for settling of the mind that I shall continue my path as planned. "And I have good and bad announcings for thee. Yes, there will be battlefields plenty in my plans, but the flesh I shall litter upon them shall be the putrid flesh of warmongring assassins..."
The Crow: "All cannot be well, [kraaa,] goodbye wise traveller, and fare thee as all should be."
The crow flies into the startling snowy whirlwinds, and vanishes into the blackwhite...
[A never impartial intermezzo: Sleeplow mind, quiet and dark, a universal Plaguemonger. Set your steps right, Weiliaonwielder, for many would wish you back from whence you came...Pity upon you, for there is no from-whence-you-came left.
Poor disrooted wretch, your past too hoorid to cherish, your future too uncertain to look forward to.
And yet, a mystic glimpse in your eyes that vanishes whenever I look at it.
Hurry, hurry, for traced you are. And none will flourish from an early confrontation.]Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
