His Name

West of the Coast, near the Troll Hills, a crypt of crumbling towers blots out the skies. No flesh left on his face, just bones and old decay. Two rubies where eyes were, gems floating never far away. Don't sing his name. Don't call him warlock, don't call him king. Three days' ride from the hills, When darkness hears you, it is the end. A minstrel walked through Baldur's Gate, strumming low, without care. Sang the ballad by the fire, "The Warlock King", surely 'twas fake. By morning, his bed was empty. No blood, letter or screams for help. Just a broken lute still hanging from his coat, It was clear, he wished he went to the Hells. Don't sing his name. Don't call him warlock, don't call him king. Three days' ride from the hills, When he sees you, it's pain he brings. They say creatures came for him, silent, hidden and cloaked in black. Carried him to to the crypt, And alone, he never came back. What he became, no one will say. Wight, or wraith, or worse. The song outlived the man who sang it. That's the fate of this curse. Don't sing his name... Too late now...