From The Book: Prophets and Pretenders
History has not been kind to you, Zamiel of Tribe Aslan.
Though I suppose history is rarely generous to men of your age.
You spent your youth searching foreign lands for a Messiah who was already here.
Amongst your bloodline came two sons:
One a war master of will who conquered stuns;
The other a peacemaker whose life became ashen fury.
The child of the peaceful one quenches the war master in a stagnant current.
You spent your youth searching foreign lands for a Messiah who was already here.
Amongst your bloodline came two sons:
One a war master of will who conquered stuns;
The other a peacemaker whose life became ashen fury.
The child of the peaceful one quenches the war master in a stagnant current.
Oh, how your mind may fade, Zamiel Yahra’Aslam,
But your spirit remembers the pain of grief and the brokenness of sorrow.
She tends your wounds like ghosts, whispering through hushed tears:
"We built our altar on mortal pride, birthing sons to bear crowns of dust."
But your spirit remembers the pain of grief and the brokenness of sorrow.
She tends your wounds like ghosts, whispering through hushed tears:
"We built our altar on mortal pride, birthing sons to bear crowns of dust."
Yet past the tomb, a quiet promise wakes,
The hope of Zamiel's fractured house.
The true Messiah rises like a holy flame.
The hope of Zamiel's fractured house.
The true Messiah rises like a holy flame.
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