Sometimes
on battlefields strewn with the valiant
The viscanti will wend their way along
to the groaning and to the silent as well.
They loom over the still and struggling
And press their spells
lifting the fallen
and smile as each is drawn to its feet
and shambles through, rising up in defeat
They know the brave will see
these missives and recoil.

'Tis their only combat,
to draw upon the bravery of those
who came and fell by less graceful means
against the Engine's shocktroops,
who one might add are among those
of the Light who have fallen.

Ere the horns of battle sound again
The robed and cowled and masked depart
with whispers and hisses and ill omens
curling along in their footsteps,
sighing as they're drawn away to the next horror.

The waters come, the soldiers and
mages and monks and bards of the Light.
Celestian luminance fills the sky and
washes over the ground like the
Water of the Plane just below it.

And like the endless Starry Sea come the
heads and shoulders and knees and toes and
Everything in between, fingers and noses and
unwanted growths on the troops of the Tainted
far too many to count or categorize or care.

When sword meets flesh and blade clacks against bone,
brilliance flaring out from holy priests like Faethorn's loveliest blossoms
When the undead, dead and re-dead shrink in fear and terror and
Arms of flesh and steel clatter to the ground and are

Trampled and forgotten and desolate and alone as the battle wears on and the fighting continues and
the dogs of war tear across the fields and plains and mountains, lapping at the dark spoils and
chasing that scent of iron that has nothing to do with weapons.

And then
When dawn breaks, and those who have fallen
have fallen more times than any creature should
And light spills once more what our children would grow to call a battlefield

They of the Light, the steadfast and tried and true
They who were the sword of the Crusader and the Defender's shield
They who brought battle to the very gates of Magnagora, and
Hurled it screaming over their walls and into their streets

Who dragged that battle on chains of grime, on tethers
They, as victors, leave it whence it came, and they, as victors
Shield their own departed from the dark call of the dark priests
They, as brothers, bring their comrades home, perform the last rites
On the last day of the last battle

They, as victors, place Shakiniel's shield at the gates of New Celest
And they, as victors, remain on guard, through the first day, and the second, and the third
Of the days of calm, the peace that follows war, the same way
that Father chases Mother 'round the stars