And who are you, the Proud Lord of the Undead said
That I must Bow of Nylea so low
Only a Cat Burglar of a different Coat of Arms
That's all the Echoing Truth I know
A Coat of Arms of Gold Myr or a Coat of Arms of Red Scarab
A Jungle Lion still has Tiger Claws
And mine, my Lord of the Undead, are long and sharp
As long and sharp as yours
And so he spoke, and so he spoke
That Lord of the Unreal
But now the Rain of Embers weep over his Hall of Triumph
With no one there to hear
Yes now the Rain of Embers weep over his Hall of Triumph
And not a Soul Seizer to hear
— Les Pluie de braises de Casse-tamer, mélopée dépeignant la triste chute du Dissident au cœur de lion