The Last Stand of Elishu

Sing, O muse, of Elishu's final stand,
Where the winds of Chaos swept through his land.
Beneath the storm-clouds, o’er marble halls,
The Oracle stood as his kingdom falls.

Not by surrender would he yield the flame,
For Chaos devoured all that bore his name.
A staff of light in his steady hand,
He faced the night, the last of his band.

“Rise, O sons, to the Oracle’s cry!
Would you see your motherland kneel or die?
Let our blood anoint these hallowed stones,
For here we’ll make them break their bones.”

Then surged his warriors, hearts ablaze,
Their shields a wall, their spears a maze.
The darkened tide of the Disciples’ might,
Met the flame of men who’d not know flight.

The Hands of Elishu chanted their spells,
Their voices clashing with Chaos’ knells.
Through wreaths of smoke and the fire’s glow,
The Prophet’s voice rose, steady and slow:

“Chaos may crush what mortals build,
But fire cannot be tamed or stilled.
From ash and ember, life shall spring;
Even gods cannot halt the phoenix’s wing.”

Then strode the Prophet, fierce and bright,
A beacon against the endless night.
He smote the Betrayers with each staff’s sweep,
Though the cost grew vast, the loss ran deep.

The ground itself seemed to quake in pain,
As Elishu’s blood mixed with the rain.
His cries a hymn, defiant and bold,
The tale of a kingdom that Chaos sold.

One final blow did the Prophet deal,
Before the hands of doom did steal,
His life away—but not his song,
For his memory echoes ever strong.

And so the Disciples, though they claimed the land,
Could not break the fire of his stand.
Elishu, now a martyr, stays,
In whispered prayers and ancient lays.

Thus Chaos learned: though it devours,
The seed of hope it can never scour.
Beneath the ruins, the embers glow,
For heroes rise where martyrs go.