Hubris

On the eighty-eighth night of the eighty-eighth year When crimson shifts to gold, A prophecy will unfold. From the ashes of time, Eight figures will rise. Eight, the sacred number of immortality, Seals the destiny of a seer and a savior, A heart and a hammer, A singer and a seeker, And a hero and a huntress.

A river of black will cease to exist, Unless the one with sight sees through the mist. A world of hatred and oaths will prevail, Unless the oracle can see the truth and can derail.

The ultimate fate is decided when the heart twice fails, And from the savior, a terrible scream will wail. The sound will echo forevermore, And from the scream, spawns a war.

Hatred and Sight, Oh, how they will fight. The winner is untold, But one thing is known.

Whichever side has the hammer which swings, The hero who knows he must bleed, The muse who no longer sings, The seer, who sees the future with great speed, The huntress who clips the monster's life strings, The heart whose life will cede. The savior with death she brings, The seeker with life he leads, Will be gifted the role of eternal queens or kings.

The world will crumble like Pompeii, But the seeker will guide fallen friends away. To safety, the seeker will find the ashes he will revive. The world will be unlike any other and will eternally thrive.

Unless the hatred wins, Then the seeker and the seer, the hero and the hammer will surely die.