Remorse of the Reavers

Crestfallen feathers and Spindlewood smoke

exhaust from the clashing Colossals asunder

The wail of the bairn crosses plains unforeseen 

towards her cove where the she-beast lay broken

Though bakers burn and tiber turns

the keepers call through crashing ice

as brazen prow breaches broken sea

and battered oarsmen yearn for home

their iron turns a’rattle, spinning sharper on sparking whetstone

While the hands of men grasp their grips of leather

the spray breaking tears on their cheeks

As the yew bow is strung, her innocence is undone

Fletching their arrows with fallen crest-feathers