Some would claim our poetry as melancholic and dark -- and in that I have to agree with them. What most of them do not see however, is the tale behind it, the lesson to be learned and the art to marvel at.
It is said that this song is as ancient as our sempiternal dark kin and would you hearken a moment long to the wind that comes howling down the north, you may hear a hint of the tones, sung by our people.
- Viraïgon
Welkin of Night
Revering sung by the night-born,
sound distant chants consuming.
Shroud of umbrage us adorn,
a nation e'er blooming
The near rise long foreshown,
when dawn falls within the time of times.
Our ascendance to the throne,
beneath fair ringing of the bone-chimes.
As the darksome warrior dons for war
and hosts of dreadful beauty form thereupon.
Is she what we are bleeding for;
City of the Conclave, beloved Dsôn Vaïmon!
So where to stars strain blades of steel,
and banners fly in mild northern gale,
from Death will the fearful one conceal.
Only we remain strong and hale ...
... when Death strives for thee so grim,
and thou feelst him nigh thy heart,
so reveal, warrior, thy scorn for him
that thou fearest naught. We cannot be torn
apart!
Warrior, draw thy sword! Embrace the fight!
Strive, in thy battle of battles exceed,
laugh at Death approaching, loud and bright.
So will they venerate thy deed,
nevermore forget thy face, thy sight!
