Deep beneath the waves of blue,
Of setting sun and blackened hue,
Exist those beyond the reach of even gods,
Those who weigh and set the universal odds.
Their skies are red and their lands are redder,
And fill the air with a scent no better
Than a room of rotten, bloody corpses
Amidst a maelstrom beyond our Earth's forces.
Their city bears the color of grime
And a burning condition of arson crime,
And the fires do not cease,
For to them the buildings never release.
The creatures which inhabited this wretched land
Are now long gone thanks to man's swift hand,
Which destroyed the beasts and unleashed chaos
Unto a universe which cares not for one's loss.
Nothing of the creatures' words or histories
Have been found amidst mankind's new miseries,
But for one name found inscribed on a beast's thigh:
The name of their capital -- their city -- their tribe.
This name now strikes terror
Into all our minds -- nothing is fairer
In its torture of our poor, haunted lives;
A name which penetrates our minds like knives.
Once you know it, O Listener or Reader,
You cannot un-know it, O Follower or Leader,
So be prepared for the name whose fear sticks like tar:
The lost city's name is Ixlemaar.