Jade and Midnight sit enthroned together in the shadows of their demesne, lost to the world. The Phoenix flies and has never touched ground in a hen's age. The ranks of the dead swell, and word spreads across vale and den of the iniquity and vice of those who name themselves Pvonakiis. The sun sets and the moon sets, and the sky is left bleak. The kingdoms burn. So it goes.
The fox is dead and skinned and there was nothing under the skin. The winter sets in and the serpent shakes his head, and the earth shatters. The promised return is not but a sham, a ghost that will evoke, but for a moment, the glory of bygone days with the song of the harp. For the days of the great kings were mighty, but they could not see their own excesses, their own slide into empty debauchery and how their radiance scorched the earth. So it goes.
Brother shall turn against brother, and sister against sister, and mary sue against mary sue. The airships shall lie gutted by the streams and the musk-soaked harems shall lie empty and barren, and no man will know why they speak of one-fifth coldness, for that knowledge shall be lost to fire and ice. Then to the underworld all shall return, and make court there, and the unfinished fics will be the bonfires of their camps. So it goes.
This is the doom pronounced, brothers. This is the sight of days to come, sisters. Weep for the children of Celestia, who were great in the world, and are no more. So it goes.