In Cincor's desolate and arid waste,
Peopled only with bones of those long dead,
The unwary traveler should make haste,
Lest misfortune descend upon his head.
Merciless rays of a red, ember sun
Are preferable to the dark of night,
With good reason this place, most people shun,
Arousing whispers in hushed tones of fright.
Plague-ridden liches by sorcery raised,
Shamble forth from dusk until crimson dawn,
Their hollow voices once, old gods praised,
Then men, now only necromantic spawn.
Of this latter cycle the prophets speak,
And of the fading light that is Zothique.