He watches us from out the dark.
Waiting still and silent,
bent in perpetual lament,
never shifting, ever searching
for that most curious thing
of an ancient and forgotten king.
That mystical relic of the bygone age,
a prophecy kept alive by a dying sage,
as much a birthright as any lage,
and guarded by the fathers of the drage.
It is that crest of the Arkon quest,
possessed by the boldest with long unrest,
bequest at Tiamarth's behest,
and suppressed by Phersu in all detest.
Tiamarth, they call him: Master of the Abyss,
lingering at the edge of the realm assumed to be his,
he persists in eternal vigilance to avoid remiss.
Never shifting, ever searching
for the forgotten king.
The Emblem of All, the promised mark.