The Lord of Ravenloft
The mists arise at my command,
To cloak this sad and stinging land.
The burgomaster’s bell has tolled
For centuries of blood and gold.
These gothic peaks, this cycled moon,
Are verses in my endless tune.
I am the ancient, I the storm,
The architect of every form
Of dread that treads my mountain pass—
The wolf, the wraith, the shivering glass.
My throne is wrought of bone and pride,
Where tender memories have died.
I drink the vintage of your fear,
And hold your fleeting beauty near.
Her face, in every age, I see
Refracted back, but never free.
A portrait on a dusty wall,
A whisper in a darkened hall.
This curse is not the fangs, the night,
But being robbed of mortal light.
Come, heroes, brave and brightly brief,
Whose courage feeds my ancient grief.
Lay out your symbols, sharp and blessed,
And put my torment to the test.
You’ll walk my corridors of spite,
Where every shadow holds a bite.
You’ll fight my brides, my stone-born beast,
Until your hope has been decreased.
For all your vows and fervent prayers
Are merely perfume on the airs.
The heart of sorrow, dark and old,
Cannot be slain, or bought, or sold.
I am the land, its breath and blight,
The master of the endless night.
So join the dance, my precious guest—
Your fear and fury suit me best.
And when you fail, as all before,
You’ll swell my legend evermore.
This is my play, my paused lament…
Come in.The door is always bent.
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