Glory to the Grit-Prince!

Hail Grit-Prince Tstunal, Undying Son of the Old Forest!

Tsunaltir, son of Ysgramor, was deceived by the phantoms of the waves and perished in icy waters.

Stuhnalmir, son of Ysgramor, was first to find his brother's corpse, and a dread will was born in his chest.

From the ruin that was Saarthal (Curse the Snow Elves Forevermore!) the Prince took ashes and hatred.

From the sea ghosts, the Prince took baleful light that robbed men and elves of their minds.

From his brother's broken form, the Prince all the years he was not to live.

To fathomless isolation, did he retreat.

Emerge did they, reborn.

Their armor was cinder and sorrow. No weapon could damage them.

Their Voice was mad ghost-light. No foe could stand before them.

Their form was sewn from the bodies of two dead brothers. Nothing would ever kill them again.

Hail Grit-Prince Tstunal, who mantles creation in unlife!

A doom has come unto Mereth, with a heart of burning coal!

Dead are the sons of Ysgramor, and the dead must feast!

Glory!

Glory!

Glory to the Grit-Prince!