Blood of crimson, thick and hot,
splatter o'er the pristine floors.
The dismal screams of cowards wrought,
a dulcent song, then cry no more.

Blackened skies of deep night roil,
crackling streams of lightning sigh.
Pattered steps of chained feet toil,
the doom of nations, its advent nigh.

March, oh Legion, to the beat of daemon's tread,
from their wretched soul find succor,
leave naught but trails of dead.

March, oh Legion, to the sound of Master's laughter,
for the angel's cry in terror,
despair shall linger after.

In the deepest Stygian night,
the doom of nations nears.
Hark, the Midnight Legions fight,
and feast upon your fears.

In Service,
Vhaedryn d'Vanecu




Penned by my hand on the 9th of Dioni, in the year 383 CE.