Iron shirted horsemen loose trotting lackies.
Snarling, snapping curs drive us into the sea.
The cold depths are our sanctuary.

Come dogs! Come!

Swim to us, our throats are bared.
Visions of the masters’ favor
lure them into deeper water.

Come dogs! Come!

Where we can stand, but, you cannot.
Strong hands will hold you beneath the waves.

Angry Templars stand upon the shore.
Plaintive whistling cannot bring back dead dogs.

The Believers are an ocean.