Eleven they were,
Nine they became.
Leonides, the Sons of the Lion, bore the Royal blood for days that passed.
In a throne of glass and ember; a sea of blood, and a mane of gold.
Their visage imperial, their words bold.
Pythius, the Serpent-singers, overturned the king and around the crown they massed.
Sly and covetous, inviolable and notorious,
Their songs sang of the very ancient, a song of the cursed.
A clan of beauty was Meldridge, the callers of the sea within,
The kinfolk of grace; their hearts danced with the blue waves and whistled to the gray winds.
Their charms lure many, but in them lay a secret uncanny.
Ethelwolves, elite clan of the Noble Wolf, have influence that lay unhindered,
A paradigm of integrity and wisdom; they recognized evil from afar.
In a storm of ice and a whisper of silver-white,
With calculated steps, austere composure, and unflawed aim, amidst the carnage they did fight.
Theron, the Hunters, knew their way across a battlefield.
In a canvas of green a fight with flame,
Their footsteps stealthy, onslaughts agile, they were hidden without a name.
The clan of Crevan was a fox at heart, cunning and curious,
They knew their best.
Ayalon and Adwar; a deer and a tiger.
Armel, a born fighter.
Eleven they were,
Nine they became.