How the weary, bloodied folk of North-Hill might
Soon come to miss their former war and plight,
For such, at least, a mind might hope to judge aright
But not so for the coming blight,
The feasting, faceless, endless blight.
How the merry Ultiks know their bloody way is right,
Yet wish the Hill they plague had more the heart to fight;
Perhaps they'll try to rage against the looming, lingering night,
But they know not the woeful blight,
The cruelty of the coming blight.
And when the last Duke of the Hill and the last Ultik Queen
'Gainst death and madness and much worse vie for a hope unseen,
They'll face such fights and horrors past their strangest, foulest dreams,
And fight to halt the urge to deem
That only doom abounds and teems.
But come what may, they must push through
And do the little they might do.
