In the mountains of this planet,

Among its highest peaks.

Where scraggly creatures prowl the cliffs,

And raptors let out shrieks,


The wraiths, the mightiest of beings,

In the middle of the night,

Let out mournful Wraithcall,

To warn argenta of their plight.


The newcomers, the maykr,

These creatures of silver steel,

These angels bearing fruit of knowledge,

With claims too good to be real,


The wraiths, they sense miasma,

They whisper song in fear.

Hoping some will hear their warning,

Upon this verdant sphere.


But most argenta heed more honeyed words,

They seek the maykrs' power.

So from the wraiths, more people turn,

With every passing hour.


There are those still cling to old ways,

Those who have keep the old faith.

Those who spurn comfort of angels,

And still bow to the wraiths.


But these are the few of many.

And as time ever moves on,

Less and less argenta,

Can hear the Wraithcall song.