Ship of Spells

Song of the Dread

The privateer Sunsdown to High Temple bore,

With treasure from Nethersea, plunder of war.

“Sail at our stern!” our dear bosun he cries.

“Damned Rhi’Ahr Dreadnought! She’ll take us a prize!”

“Fear not, my good lads,” the captain he swore,

“We’ll slew the damned Dreadwall. Lay up on the shore!”

“It’s never been done, sir”—but he turns to me—

“We’ll do it—the Sunsdown, thy captain, and thee!”

Dreadsky, Dreadwall, Dreadships, Dreadtown,

What magik sends up, good men must cast down.

The Dreadnought is swift, but aye, swifter we be.

Our sails snap the canvas both windward and lee.

Into the Dread Sheets now, our schooner she flies,

Chased by the Dreadnought through thundering skies.

Two weeks and two more, under two burning suns,

The Sunsdown grows weary outracing their guns.

We pray to the suns now, pale Ember, bright Forge,

We pray to the moons, Luna, Lyrik, and Lore.

Becalmed in the Silence, a-beaten, a-thirst,

Our spirit is broken, our plunder a-cursed,

Yet, sing we the song that we all learned as wee,

The “Song of the Dread,” thy captain, and me.