The word has past,

Through messages,

Through the hands of couriers,

I hear tale of your besiegement,

Across plains,

Over mountains,

Around forests,

Flying across seas and rivers,

Your tales of woe bring tears to my eyes,

Though your wall stand tall,

Your turrets and castles are ablaze in white fury,

The towns that lie around you are burning without remorse,

Your children cried out for the pain that feel,

Your women mourn at the loss of so many,

Your elders remain stoic as they saw this coming,

And your men, Your defenders, remain silent,

As they have fought and died,

Now your son shall return to you,

Your favorite,

Your protector is coming,

The miles that lie between us,

Will be nothing on the wings of the furies that I am coming on,

Armies race in my wake,

They follow in this race,

Garrisons come and the army is built,

Wait for me mother as I am coming,

Let not your beauty be wasted on these foreigners,

Let them not spoil your beauty,

Let them not desecrate your holy places,

Let them not plunder your hard fought treasures.

May the god of the winds push us forward,

May the god of the storms announce our coming,

May the god of the rains come and cleanse us after,

Wait for us mother,

Your sons are coming,

And the fury of hell knows not of our wrath,

We are coming.