The White Wraith has risen from her grave;
It is true that she has been sleeping
For a hundred years, or so it seemed.
It is only now that she wakes up.
She was once a famous warrior
Who left armies slaughtered in her wake.
Children cried at the sound of her name,
And grown men shivered in their armor.
Still, none were as just, nor as lovely,
As she who made mountains out of naught.
Her eyes had been made of diamonds,
Her skin wrought from the purest marble.
Her every footstep was an earthquake,
And her every tear a thunderstorm.
None could stir up fear inside her heart,
Which was rumored to be made of stone.
No mortal man could make her love him;
She was immune to the sting of lust.
She cast her eyes on the earthly race,
And she laughed at their impudence.
They thought she could not be defeated;
They prayed to her in the dark hours.
She was the goddess of ice and fear,
Of battles and storms that come raging.
They thought that there was no one greater—
It was this hapless faith that killed them.
For there was in fact a warrior
Who could best even the famed White Wraith.
His face was like a darkened shadow,
His head covered by a mane of grey.
The nights were darkened by his presence,
And filled with the sound of his howling.
He challenged the Wraith to a duel,
Atop the mount she had made her home,
Taking up his slender, silver scythe,
With eyes that glowed like a demon’s blood.
It was there she met her awful fate,
Brought down by a monster dressed in grey.
The white of her skin became the snow,
And thus she was blighted from the earth.
For a hundred years, she slept and slept,
Deep in the heart of the snow-capped mount.
But the day has come for her to wake,
And once again she shall claim her throne.
Again the earth shall shake beneath her!
Again the people will call her name!
She shall cast her Enemy away,
And his scars forever be erased.
A great ocean of blood shall rush forth,
And wash away the stink of his fur.
Here this, O grey-headed Wolf of old:
The White Wraith is coming once again.