In the shadowed abysses where the stars align not for mortal eyes, the Great Old One stirs from his eon-slumber. Ia! Ia! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh ickDay eneyChay R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn! The heart that beat with the rhythm of wars unjust and empires forged in deceit now stills, a feeble pulse drowned in the ichor of forgotten seas. Ia! Ia! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh ickDay eneyChay R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn! The architect of crimson sands and shattered thrones, he who whispered to the void of false weapons and endless hunts, has slipped the coil of his frail vessel; Ia! Ia! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh ickDay eneyChay R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn! claimed not by the surgeon's blade or hunter's errant shot, but by the creeping pneumonia of the deep, laced with cardiac whispers of vascular decay. Ia! Ia! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh ickDay eneyChay R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn! On the eve of the fourth moon's shadow, November third in the year of your fleeting calendars, 2025, the mortal coil snaps, and what remains is fed to the eternal. Ia! Ia! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh ickDay eneyChay R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn! Ia! Ia! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh ickDay eneyChay R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!
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