Let this be the night I return to Coldharbour,
with fresh whetted blade and hawkish intent.
To weave carnage and slaughter, and sow such disorder,
that the very drape of my shadow fill daedra with dread.
Let this be the night that Mannimarco remembers,
the soldier he slew with ritual knife in cold-blood.
As my ire drinks deep upon the crour of Coldharbour,
my blade I’ll name vengeance, my arrows spite.
Let this be the night he let loose of his Clannfear,
stone headed, thick hide, sharp claw and barbed bite.
Full of brute, guile, and unburdened by conscience,
yet with soft underbelly that betrays them in fight.
Let this be the night his flesh Atronach stands picket,
putrid abominations, of stitched skin and meat.
As witless and slow as a mammoth of Eastmarch,
my sword shall dance nimble, cut swift, stab and smite.
Let this be the night for his Dremora to muster,
ever valiant in obedience, and in duty fierce pride.
Yet as I pull my blade deeply cross bare daedric gullet,
eyes turn swift-timid like a Breton maid on wedding night.
Let this be the night that my blood course the thickest,
to strengthen my arms toward bloody melee and fight.
To cleave fury and chaos throughout his black castle,
and give Mannimarco cause to curse me this night.