The old stones are gone,
Platforms leading to the archives.
The old bonfires are out,
Even the flame in the tomb.
Down the hall the rug is ragged,
No more do knights kneel there.
The last knight is no more too,
Her arms resting in the hall.
They stand their vigil even now,
Ignored by the usurpers and waiting.
Take up the arms, Blade,
Take up the old firekeeper’s pact.

Small girl up in the tower,
Hidden away to draw out shadows.
Covered in downy fur,
Wintercoat of the halfbreed dragonkin,
Children of moonlight serpents, masters of crystals.
She has never lived among her kin,
The Woman of the Painting with scythe.
No, always she has walked Anor Londo,
Towers of the gods
Alongside her brother.
That is the story, that was.
Now she guards city under siege,
Company captain in name if not spirit,
Singing songs of vengeance
Whose words she does not comprehend.
Yet she sings on for her brother,
The sheltered dragon of the tower,
The bell carrying captain.

The fire fades
Father’s fears
Rushing in
Rending minds
Tearing flesh
Men rising up
Calling out
Begging, praying
So easy to rouse
Story falling
From your lips
Pale and shadowy
Telling of flame
A continuing age
The crowning of kings
Of ash and cinder
Stoking on the kiln
And the men come
And you rule
And the fire burns
An honorable son
Hail the sun, and its flame!
Hail the moon, and its flame!