A light downpour begins to fall upon the desolate battlefield below,
A slight chill creeps across the field, transmuting drops of rain into flakes of snow.
An eerie silence replaces what once was the sound of a frenzied fight,
An endless mass of bloody soldiers decorate the ground on this mournful night.
There, within the center, sword still clutched in hand,
Is a warrior of legends who has made his final stand.
Within hours all the bodies were buried beneath the smooth white snow,
The frozen flakes fell no more, and the wind began to blow.
The morning sun crept over the hills, shining light of red on snow of white;
From the drifts bursts forth the man, reborn and burning bright.
Though with a new identity, Sweet Oblivion is still his land,
The Imperor is as strong as before, his Impire just as grand.