Haunting fog engulfs the Shadow Isles;
a chorus of doom spreading through miles,
never wondering for whom the bell tolls,
once again, the Black Mist howls.
Water for the living,
shovel for the dead,
my tears of life – giving
hope against this dread.
What I do is just,
every horrid piece of it,
even if I must
break apart achieving it.
I must dig, I must go forth,
before everything is consumed by the horde.
To fight this morbid curse, I must use it,
keeping my sanity until I loose it.
I am no tyrant,
these souls act on their own,
humble and silent,
simply striving to see the dawn.
Of my order – last, but also the first,
how quick the turn from blessed to cursed,
I’m Shepherd of Souls and this is my story,
and you will remember the name, Yorick Mori.