For I am old and lonely, child.
My time is growing short.
The fiendish things inside this place
now hunt us for their sport.
For I am tired and weary, child,
of things that chase and bite.
The fiendish things within these walls
pursue us through the night.
Well I am sick of running, child.
I think that I will stay
to fight the fiendish at our backs,
so make your getaway.
I only ask, remember me
as you live out your days,
and never use your magic gift
for learning fiendish ways.
I hear them growing closer, child.
My violent end is nigh.
To die in crimson polyglot’s
a soldier’s way to die.
Now run! Make haste! Go quickly, child.
But first, a kiss farewell.
And don’t look back to see the swarm
of fiendish things from hell.
Alone within the shadowed crypt,
I face the demon horde.
And make my peace with holy gods,
and draw my heathen sword.
BlackQuill 