Story of Old

Every mage has a choice,
Of what to be, whom to become,
Thankfully, most of the time,
White magic is the way to go.

However, after every time,
There is a wizard,
Who if filled up with learning,
And so he wanders off to a distant lands,
To learn the art of Necromancy.

Alone he travels and spends,
Many winters of his precious life,
Until one day he is able,
To summon the dead at will.

Although, over long time,
Many wonder off to learn the black arts,
Few complete the dreaded task,
And become leaders of scourge.

White wizards oppose the black,
And black hate the light,
But it got to a point,
Where one hated all.

He fled to the south,
A barren wasteland,
Full of sand and sickening death,
To plot a scheme of such greatness,
That one day it shall shake the world.

Over a very long time,
He summoned and trained his undead,
Until it got to a point,
The ocean of sand turned black.

As far as the eye of an eagle could see,
Legions and hordes,
Of zombies and ghouls,
Vampires and wretches,
Were forming ranks of death.

And on a given day at the certain hour,
A horn sung the song of advance,
And the war machine of Khalim Napal,
Began its dreaded march.

His armies burned towns and raided cities.
Fortresses were besieged 'till end,
And soon there was none to resist,
The scouring armies of death.

Warlock was thought to be a god at the time,
Or maybe a demi by some.
Yet as all great oppressors come,
He left the same way.

A kitchen girl who hid in the basement,
Saw the lord passing by,
And without long hesitation,
She jumped onto him with a knife.

Throat split open,
Fountains of blood flying up,
All because an almighty wizard,
Believed the gossip of others.

All it takes for an elephant to go down,
Is one little mouse underneath.
And despite all his greatness,
Mice do have sharp teeth.

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