When the wind began to die,
it could no longer carry our cry.
When the sea grew wild and cruel,
we knew that he was no fool.
The earth did rot,
the fire no longer hot.
We began to lose all hope,
we needed another way to cope.
But then it came from from who knows where,
a prophecy about four warriors fair.
The crystals they carry,
his powers they could bury.
To restore the light to us all.
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Chronicles of a Filandrythian
A mysterious red leather book, that seems to want you to read it.
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