The moon is high o'er the dark roofed woods, the pillagers pull on their travelling hoods, you hold your toy axe and beg to take part, but the raid cannot start for a boy, little heart. So lay down your head, let the anger rest deep, a fierce young vindicator needs his sleep. I see how you practice your swing and your stride, and dream of the iron golem defied. But the night is for vowers of steel to go roam, while the smallest of axes stays safely at home. The evoker is calling for vexes to fly, as the banners move out under midnight's dark sky. Tomorrow you'll run where the villagers flee, and chop down the doors of the valley with me. But tonight you must slumber, my fierce little blade, while your father goes marching away on the raid. Close your eyes, little warrior, the torches burn low, tomorrow's your time to strike down the foe.
