Pool of blood...

The man in grey...

This man...
This man sitting there...
This man staring at me with his chest bare...
The man in grey...

This man stands up and hauls himself across the room on a chair...
Tape on mouth he just sits and stares...
At the door because he dares... Only he dares to escape this fortress,
this evil lair...

The man in grey they call him...
The way the darkness seems to haul him…
Yet light is the one that sometimes will call him…
The man who slayed the old king...
The man who helped those young spirits and encouraged bards to sing…
This outlaw, so dull, a poor old thing...
But he's there...

The man in grey...
Standing up he manages to unseal his mouth and says:
"Lets destroy this place, this den of thieves.
Lets show them what its like to be their prey!"...

So slowly a democracy forms...
A faceless band of outlaws attempting to conjure almighty storms.

The man in grey sits back down now... he realises the time,
re-tapes his mouth and tells everyone:
"Calm the hell down!"
He sits there as if asleep,
saliva dripping from his mouth and sweat dripping on his cheek…

A man in black walks in... the emblem set in flames written in his skin...
The look of dead authority scorching the walls…
Smell of brimstone he brings forth…
Walking up to us he makes the air grow thin, he leers at us and makes us cry for the wellbeing of our kin...

The grey man strikes and after seconds have been...
He falls to the ground and the man in black turns around...

A pool of blood stains the ground...