Tread not the path where silence reigns,
Where breath is stolen, marrow drains.
Here lingers death in ancient shroud,
The gift of Azapar, unbowed.

Once flesh and blood, a man of will,
He bartered soul for darker skill.
From crypt and grave, his legions swarmed,
Cold hands to serve, cold hearts to warm.

Through Mother Terra’s heart he tore,
Her fields to ash, her skies to war.
By forge of bone and sinew’s thread,
He crowned his halls with nameless dead.

A million marched beneath his hand,
A million more became the land.
Their ribs as arches, skulls as spire,
Their screams the mortar, grief the fire.

Yet all that walks must one day fall;
His beasts unbound, obeyed no call.
They rotted where their victors stood,
And freed the world through plague and blood.

But freedom’s breath was lined with pain,
For streets lay thick with what remained.
Friends remembered, faces known,
Now carrion beneath the stone.

Two centuries healed but not erased,
The shadow still has left its taste.
And Isack Pass, once bright with trade,
Lies hollow now, in curse arrayed.

For on the mount his fortress lies,
Its walls still haunt the weary skies.
And all who trespass feel the same:
Their life drip out, their soul to claim.