[Lore / Background]: "Owing to the perpetual wars that infuse the Avarian species' blood with an affinity for war, death in battle is a fate many of the thousands of tribesfolk desire, so that they may get to see their dead relatives on the other sides in the starry heavens above. Dying in war has proven to be a powerful equalizer amongst the trueborn and the wingless 'pretenders', with each side sometimes giving respect to those slain that have shown exceptional spirit in their final moments (if not begrudgingly)." On rare occasion, warriors create makeshift graves out in the deserts for their fallen brothers or sisters in arms." [Intro] "...verr srara aqar cuka o doae vram va com reqa imdeqedad?" (...will there ever come a day when we can live undivided?) [Verse I] The prairie wakes in amber flame, red mesas carved with every name. Spears stand planted in the ground, where fallen warriors sleep unbound. Trueborn wings in morning light, shadow the graves of those who died. Talons scrape the sacred stone, no soul returns to dust alone. The elders chant, the hunters kneel, beast-hide banners twist like steel. For every heart the battle won, we lift their names under the sun [Pre-Chorus] And when they fall — (when they fall) Wings spread wide against the dirt We carve their names into the updraft So the ancestors know... they're coming home. [Chorus] Raise them high, the lost and brave, sing their fire beyond the grave. Wing or wound, crowned or undone, all are judged beneath the sun. Let the drums of memory run— we remember every one. Lift them high — the fallen, the fierce Every death in battle is a birth... (a birth!) Under the sun! [Verse 2] But the wingless crawl among us now — (heathens...) Stripped of plume, stripped of sky They wore their cowardice like second skin And the elders tore what they did not deserve You do not get to touch the clouds With claws that trembled at the charge You do not speak the old tongue With a throat that swallowed treason whole The trueborn spit toward their pyres, calling them thieves of sacred fires. “Heathens crawl where heroes should fly, stealing thunder from the sky.” [Pre-Chorus] They reach upward — (always reaching) As if the heavens owes them anything The sky is sacred... the sky is earned Not inherited by the shamed [Chorus] Raise them high, the lost and brave, sing their fire beyond the grave. Wing or wound, crowned or undone, all are judged beneath the sun. Let the drums of memory run— we remember every one. Lift them high — the fallen, the fierce Every death in battle is a birth... (a birth!) Under the sun! [Breakdown – Polyrhythmic, Ceremonial] Stone! For the fallen! Fire! For the slain! Wind! For the winged ones! Dust! For the shamed! Name every warrior! Mark every scar! Blood on the prairie! Eyes on the stars! [Verse 3] How many pyres before the tribes are ash? How many wingless before there's no one left to fly? The ancestors demand — but do the ancestors bleed? Does the Silent Brood weep when the last Avarian falls? Or do they just... watch? [Chorus] Raise them high, the lost and brave, sing their fire beyond the grave. Wing or wound, crowned or undone, all are judged beneath the sun. But if our songs leave none to run— who will remember anyone? Glory only blooms where the brave decompose But if the brave are gone — If every warrior returns as smoke — Who remains to remember? Who remains...
