Upon the bulwarks of Evermore,
on the banks of the Bjoulsae;
where Pelin’s noble sacrifice,
is remembered to this day.
The dark clouds are now gathering,
like a black flag cross the moons;
and all I hear are riddles from
the black crows cawing doom.

The Queen mourns in her chapel,
black spirited from cap-a-pe;
whilst her people pray through the night,
for the dawning of the day.
And the blind faith of a handmaiden,
leads us towards the deepening gloom;
and all I hear are riddles from
the black crows cawing doom.

The Enemy of my adversary,
and a truce that tastes most foul;
yet peck and claw of murdering crows,
lays bare the spies of Cyrodiil.
A queen roused now to vengeance,
a city rallies to her bloody plume;
yet still all I hear are riddles from
the black crows cawing doom.

S.K