Under weight of the world and crinkled nose,
A gaze of cold command peers.
From the wrinkles on his face you know,
he has seen much in his long years.

He looks beyond the parapet,
Waiting for his foes,
Ancient battles he will never forget,
The sound of flesh-rending metal blows.

A wrinkled lip and a sneer of cold command,
passion for battle read by those long dead,
who fell beneath his practiced hand.
Lifeless things who's lifeblood fed,

The Dominion promised by Ashtan,
To the primal plane who's promise remains,
To take this entire land,
And see that Chaos reigns.

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Phaestian, in the year 812 AF.