ShovelingFerret

Oh hound of the sun, great king of our tribe, sit in your golden hall, play your warrior's dance. The pieces move upon the board, but it is not a game; your own kin, your folk, all thrown to chance. The gods you've revoked, removed from your house, the priests all dead under your hand, Except for the few, for the wolves that slaver at your feet; false prophets stand. Great wealth you've brought us, but at what expense? When the Eagle marches to our land to take our fields' expanse; When your servants keen their cry of mourning at your eventual demise, When the people behold the death of a god, golden trinkets aflame beneath skies... Your thre