From dank and filthy heavens angels rise:
whiskers twitching and eyes as red as screams.
whiskers twitching and eyes as red as screams.
Disease they bring, boon of he who dwells below
for 'neath our feet and cobblestones it seems
a god unhonored reigns, Avasyu's kin,
though only Malkav calls his name. The dreams
of ragged holies churn with them, and in
and in our packs they bulge, and that which ever gleams
is paid to us by Phillipus the Crafter.

Our laughter sprays the night, our cups we drain,
all paid for by the martyred beasts whose prince
abides below. But come one day our gain
will be our woe. For Thane of Rats will rise in flame,
will be our woe. For Thane of Rats will rise in flame,
and neither spell nor sword nor sigil bright
will stem the tide of Rattus Night. The halls
of hallowed guilds will swarm with those whose heads
we smite today. And feral Lord of Dreads
who rules them at Kinsarmar Cross will sit
a throne of bone and fire. The Rodent Court
a throne of bone and fire. The Rodent Court
will dine on plates of that which gleams, and mate,

more
more
and of our day will say: c'est mort! more


Penned by my hand on the 5th of Ultio, in the year 456 AD.