Out of The Mists of Cayenome

Out of the mists of Cayenome,
flies the darken-thing to it's doom;
onwards and anon it did roam
bringing forth dark-shadowed gloom;
so did cry the townsfolk of Ettonhome
"Our fate is to die under clouds of grey".

Bold Elracas; keeper of the eldritch blade,
also must ride forth to meet his domesday
and thrust his spear as the storm bayed.
Onwards to the brink of despair he wends his way,
the wound he gave, the foul-thing repaid!
"No more shall I awake to another day!"

But Bold Elracas doth waken again
ever more in the glittering fields;
far above the seas' sunken den,
a home doth he make in the hall of shields.
There he awaits the death of gods and men,
and the world reborn from the sun's ray

So sing the stupid, of brave Elracas,
May we all live to grow as wise as they!