The sun boils in the well mouth of our cave, bright amidst the overhanging boughs, and I sing.
I sing <i>We are the twisted ones, the fallen ones.</i> I sing <i>We are the guardsmen in the halls, the stormtroopers we.</i> I sing <i>We are the weeds upon the fields, and the wolves starving in the forest.</i> I sing <i>We are the goblins, we are the orcs, the kobolds and the easterlings.</i>
Thus I sing to the young ones.
But hush now, for I hear walkers on the narrow path. Travellers, perhaps; perhaps, adventurers.
And here comes Second, her face sharp and angry. She tells me we must take to the trees, spy out these interlopers.
I am First - the decision is mine.