By Ekjyot Singh
Come forth to the table of Leyndell’s hold,
where tarnished souls sip dreams of gold,
chalices brimmed by Marika’s grace,
veins carved deep in the tables of kings,
where relics of gods and great lords lie,
and marrow of ages long gone to dust
is savoured like sins in a hollow sky.
In Stormveil’s vaults, the shadows twist,
and there sits Godrick, thrice-bound lord,
with gilded flesh of twisted kin,
where hands upon hands claw for more—
O gluttonous king, spread wide your maw,
consume the limbs you dare to claim,
gorge on the echoes of blood and war,
until even your iron heart grows lame.
Down Liurnia’s banks, under moonlight’s crest,
where Rennala waits in the whispering west,
the feast is laid in silvered gleam,
scales and pearls in arcane streams,
each bite a glimmer of mystery’s art,
Each sip is bleeding from wisdom’s heart.
O lady of learning, bound by the stars,
they drink to you, but grasp in vain,
hungering not for flesh nor bone,
but for knowledge’s glow and arcane flame.
In Caelid’s scarlet lands, we tread,
where rot like fire burns a sickly red—
the feast lies thick with ruin’s breath,
and Radahn’s war-worn shade presides,
the stars themselves, like embers lie,
consumed in dust and marrow-dry,
where every beast in crimson heat
gnaws in frenzy upon the meat.
In the belly of Gelmir’s molten hill,
at Rykard’s side, in flames grown chill,
we taste of gods by fire and fang,
devourers’ feast where serpents hang.
O Lord of the coil, charred and bold,
your banquet is forged of faith betrayed—
each morsel blackened by rage’s fire,
each taste a bite of lost desire,
as hands that once held golden grace
burn in the pyre of your own embrace.
The Lands Between, a feast unsound,
where grace is charred, and gods are bound,
where we dine upon the husks of stars,
and hunger, deep and darker still, devour what the fates have willed.