In the heart of the Hearth, where the flames never die,
We raise up our voices to the Bloodsworn on high.
Lord Deucalion's fire, Lady Aurora's light,
We stand firm in their faith, ever ready to fight.

But here comes the shade, from the mountain's dark slope,
Cyrene's cold whispers, clinging to lost hope.
They mutter and mumble, all filled with disdain,
But their words hold no weight, just a shadow's refrain.

And then there's that angsty Chaos-born spawn,
From the Seat of Despair, where reason's long gone.
You think youa e got power, you think youa e got game?
But your words are as empty as the void you proclaim.

Now let's talk of Blonk, the bard of our verse,
His rhymes like a river, his wit like a curse.
They say he's too quirky, they say he's too odd,
But we know hea blessed by the true hands of Gods.

So when you step up, with your verses so weak,
Remember ita Blonk's wisdom we seek.
For his quill is a sword, his parchment a shield,
In the court of the Bloodsworn, ita Blonk who won't yield.

So bring on your disrespects, your challenges and scorn,
In the face of our faith, you'll be left forlorn.
For in Targossas, where the true fire burns bright,
We laugh at your folly, as you fade into night.

So raise up your voice, if you think you can stand,
Against Blonk's sharp verses, or the Bloodsworn's command.
But know that in the end, when your words turn to dust,
Ita the faith of the Hearth that remains just and robust.

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Miraman, in the year 955 AF.