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Long have I listened to the songs of the Southron tongues, and low have I seen flung the banners of empires now unmoored in the tide of history.
I have traced the bloodlines of kings to the very marrow, weighing every rune that once lit the high towers.
And yet, this I cannot name.
They are The Nine. Shrouded, innominate, but ever-present.
They descend across these lands like grave mist over the dead.
Their song is the unmaking of the world. All hear the black melody dimly in the silence of Night’s shadow,
as if faint voices behind the heavy door were singing to thee, beckoning to thee…
They are as crawling thunder before the Iron Shadow, Warlords and Heralds of the Hungering King.
A piercing chorus of rusted shrieking, a cloying dread of which none can find refuge, they carry not banners but the grim auspices of Doom.
Do not seek them.
Do not name them.
The Nine have risen.
Their song is heard through the door.