The struggle through endless hordes.
Battered, broken, always standing.
The Demon and his weapon of Thought.
Whispered in the dark, his venomous words.
A war won at great loss, with fire so astounding.
The Templar, and the Wrath he wrought.
The Demon was his undoing, beaten by the Two-Thirds.
Darkness must exist for those Shining.
Triumvirate we stood determined to defy our lot.
And so sleep came, the resting of guards.
And grew the Darkness beyond Understanding.
There is no enemy, no battle which can be fought.
Our fires die, The Demon can not navigate this land.
Templar's shield trying to hold back the enveloping.
Weapons drawn we prepare to do all we know.
But how is the destruction your Antithesis sought?
Backs to the dying fire we prepare for a last stand.
Jaded, we try to ignore the lone hole in The Darkness developing.
Is Hope is a luxury The Cursed must forgo?
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