The horde
The angry crowd
They stand at the gates with weapon in hand

The few are what remains
Remnants of ideals that find new champions upon which to stand

For the sake of a dream we will stain noble blades
Blood runs thick on fields of flowers that will forever be burned with violent screams

We the few
We the brave
We the fools

We have an edge to cut with and for a cause to die
So blacken your armour, scythe in hand
Lay heavy into the horde and make them rue the day

This is our hell and we demons will make angels weep and pray
For there is no more fury in heaven than in each swing of our blades

I will know the enemy bleeds, even if my life is the price I pay


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