Gaze deep through weary winter snows
past lofty Lortmils singing frosted chords
to Gnarley Forest; see, a black spring grows!
‘Tis demon’s broth mere sigils cannot ward
nor old heroes turn by remember’d feats.
Southerly of the squalid Nulb ruins await
her baleful tones and cacaphonous beats,
and the fool to chime our heinous fate
through facets of four faced golden key.
Joined they from four strange boxes
these gems give awful choice; placate She
of Layers Nefarious, or turn She with same rocks?
Bode they the wisest course that fell at Emridy,
to hold hell on earth temporarily?
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