Across the shroud of waking mortal dreams, Where terror bleeds into obsidian streams, The Lord of Fear awakens from his throne, To claim the shivering souls he calls his own. A towering pyramid of bone and stone, In shadowed realms where mercy is unshown, His eyeless gaze looks out across the void, Where every fragile hope is soon destroyed. The Faceless One breathes nightmares to no end, Reminding all of where the flesh has sinned. With scythe and malice etched into his hand, He rules the dread domain with iron brand. The creeping phantom born of mortal fright, Consumes the remnants of the fading light. In Plane of Fear, the scream is never heard, Where madness is the only spoken word. He feeds on trembling heartbeats in the dark, And leaves upon the soul a burning mark. A deity of dread, supreme and cold, Whose ancient, wicked empire can't be sold. The champions of Norrath dare to tread Where shadows coil and spirits wake from dead. They face the guardian terrors of the deep, While Cazic-Thule watches them weep. No mortal shield can block his mental gaze, That twists the mind within an endless maze. The terror mounts, the warriors start to break, As agony is all he stays awake. And still he sits upon his skull-built seat, With trembling empires dying at his feet. The eternal monarch of the dark and chill, The God of Fear who bends them to his will.
