The Black Ballad of Guzmaghal

The Wraith in his dank and dark tomb dwells
Bound to the crumbling stones of this prison.
Where once a mighty Golden Mage stood
Now there is a wraith in armour and hood
With endless tales to tell.

Where there was flesh only shadow remains
And his eyes now are bright blue flames.
He hungers for the lives of Elves and Men
That he may feel that he is whole again.
All mortal life his touch drains.

His robes of black silk that shines in the light
And the gold embroidered runes upon it
Hang from him like a shroud on a corpse
Held loosely by the power of the chorus
Of those ancient, endless runes.

His armour is a relic of venerated artistry
And runes adorn it too, and give it great power
So that it may cling to his dark, spectral form
And give him a body with which he shall mourn
That he ever made his black decree.

Once he was a mighty Gold Elven sorcerer
By the name of Gûzmaghal the Revered.
He held power greater than his fellow Elf Folk
But feared that it would all go up in smoke,
And be as if it never were.

Studying the tomes of Nazareth the Tainted,
The very first of the cursed race of Wraiths,
Gûzmaghal found the forbidden ritual spell
That would spare him from the ravages of Hell
And with ancestors remain unacquainted.

Crafting armour and robes that would bind
To the ghastly shape that he would call his own,
By night and day he forged the time away,
And crafted a cloak that would dance and sway
When mortal coils he would unwind.

He found the words and wrote the runes
And gathered to him the right sacrifice.
Bog root and Moss from the Hanging tree,
And the hair of a sorrowful, remorseful banshee,
And a Dark Elf, born under the moon.

From midnight 'till dawn he chanted his spells
And felt immortality draw nearer with every word,
But then he felt something that felt very wrong,
But far too late was it to stop the Wraithsong
And the shadow within him swells.

His flesh turned to sand as he fearfully sang,
Replaced by a cold and shadowy smoke.
His eyes turned to fire inside his dying head
And it made him wish that he were dead
As around the room his screams rang.

And then the pain was gone, hunger but remained
And Gûzmaghal turned to his doomed sacrifice.
Touching the quarry with his black, ethereal hand
And on the drugged forehead it did land.
The Dark Elf screamed, pained.

Turning to dust, the Dark Elf writhed in vain,
His life force feeding Gûzmaghal's hunger.
But then the Gold Elf city guards burst in,
Catching Gûzmaghal committing his sin,
And with magic, he was restrained.

Thus he does sit in his small, dark tomb
And awaits the day a wide eyed wanderer
Might stumble across the mighty, hungry wraith.
No man or woman in the world will be safe,
Once Gûzmaghal is released from the gloom.