The Gathering

Here is a mystery, felt in the bone,
of spirits whose names should never be known
of ancient wise men who've yet to atone,
for crimes of blood splashed across white stone.

How many swords did the dawn mages make,
to free those souls that lesser gods take?
Quick as a funeral, sharp as a snake,
waiting to gather when hungry dead wake.

Answer a legend with a heart of steel,
piercing the visions that make you feel,
longing for a time ruled by things unreal,
fangs dripping misery, a prophecy to steal.

Discover a riddle in emerald and gold,
worthy of curses from the legends of old,
to carry your heart in the withering cold,
Through ages of hardship and tales untold.

Guard well the secrets hidden in song,
chanted by blind monks all midnight long,
breath held in fear of a note struck wrong,
lost in shadow before hope once strong.

Follow the dragon through flailing rain,
proud and majestic on wings of pain,
colder than yesterday, older than Cain,
a sky to live for and stars still to gain.

These are the threads of destiny,
heavy with import mere eyes cannot see,
calling out heartfires, setting none free,
an omen filled journey may yet be the key.

There! In the distance, thunderous light,
gathering strangers in a stranger night.
Some come to worship, others to fight,
now is the time for their souls to shine bright.