Written in blood was this ancient legend,
Of the cursed bloodline run;
Only in vile land was this imagined,
The horror of the Sun.

A deity’s Staff passed to priest of day,
In the temple of dark Sun,
A blackened light that seemed to pray
For more blameless blood to run.

A curse was passed to him that day
That day he took the token.
A nameless horror of decay
Never to be broken.

But a loophole was to be seen,
After passing years;
One fading chance of coming clean
And putting behind its fears.

A simple boy was put to the task
Of destroying the Staff so dread,
A bastard wearing a ‘worthless’ mask
On his heart and in his head.

The last one left of that cursed line
Must now break the Staff
Before the curse should take his time,
His life, of its wicked craft.

It is impossible, maybe,
But he’ll try it even so,—
Nothing it could give could be
Bad as his own fate, no.

Will he make it? Can he prevail?
The legend lies therein.
Just know that if he should then fail
It will spell death for him.