Why do you sink your blades into each other's hearts?
My blade does not discriminate,
and neither did theirs
The daedra at the White tower, four armed, terrible, and bloodied
never questioned your race, all were blood and gore, on that fateful day
When the Mad God extended his invitation to Nirn he did not question
if you were a true son of Skyrim
And neither will the next one
Stormcloak archers will pierce imperial hearts,
and blood red skies will crack.
The Legate will make another charge
and laughter will be heard over thunderstorms
But you will not be spared next time.
Their will be no Hero of Kvatch, no Dragonborn
just petty Elves and wicked Nords.
Who will slowly degenerate,
and serve profligate lords
unify and prepare
for the daedra crawl and whisper,
and they are everywhere