Beneath the ashfall and within these trees,
Some seven mercenaries lie in wait.
Their nails are sharp to varying degrees,
Their muscles trained to open every gate.
Assuming you've evaded their hound's thirst
For carnage that's denied within their fold
And captured them, you shall be reimbursed
With swift oblivion and not with gold.
A blessed few are welcomed to their halls
And given goblets full of poisoned wine.
The butlers fielding messages and calls
Repeat their master's lies in every line.
Mistakenly believing you're a friend
Is just a one-way ticket to the end.