Under Autumn's Light
Over a dying kingdom, the shadows of autumn are cast.
Every life as thing as the leaves that fall upon the withered soil. That which no amount of blood can nourish.
A feeble sun casts its light, upon those pale and sickly. Scarce different from the walking dead that now call this land their own.
As if grief has turned the living transparent. Scarce different than ghosts. Their bodies as thin and pale as the leaves, upon which they softly tread.
Ever fleeing the march of death.
Trees, withered, from autumn's chill and blight's touch.
That which does not burn is left to die.
No light's presence, be it from feeble sun or broken knights. Disbanded, by golden son, now traitor.
Son, scarce different from sun, as the touch of both brings no joy to people of land once called Lordaeron.
Without life's presence, death itself has new twisted essence.
Knights of death ride on skeletal steeds, in places of knights of silver hand. Allegiance given to lord of death.
Ruling from throne that still serves as his prison.
A foul stench upon the air, that no among of sunlight can purify.
Some living, while walking dead, looking for place to collapse and die.
Bodies left to be buried by leaves, under autumn's pallid light.
Long night, is what awaits this realm. The flame of life long snuffed out, as cursed steel snuffed out the heart of brightest flame.
From cruelty, the usurper does not refrain.
This kingdom, ground to dust.
Swords rust, held by skeletal hands.
As people flee to southern lands.
Their terror, they confide.
Of the prince's regicide.
The Reign of Chaos looms.
Through him, the Scourge sounds its doom.
Death knights riding. Famine, pestilence, death.
War was lost before it began.
All that's left now is broken kingdom.
This grave, this tomb.
Covered by withered leaves.