As a wet wind blows my pain through the grass on which I bled,
The motherly morning mists wash the fresh and clotted dead,
Of the wondrous din and discord of the last day's frenzied fray;
By the short glow of a rising sun malice ebbs with my zeal to slay.
Tomorrow's scars I idly dress by a fire's impartial light,
While I ponder a sword's providence and man's pitiful earthly plight.
I keep a coin as liege, a claymore's creed, and mirth my only gauge,
The gold of kings and glorious death to one who makes a servant of rage.
- Skullsplitters Ode to Battle -
