Met a fellow in the street, draped in mud and gloom, Reeking of incense and impending doom. He hissed, "Cyric claims you" with a murderous glare, Then pulled out a dagger... made of pine-wood and pièrre! He started a chant, something wicked and scary, With a rhythmic twitch of his pale, bony hand - how dandy (...I think?) But he botched the last word, gave a thunderous sneeze, And cursed his own trousers right down to his knees! He stumbled back blind through the tavern’s swinging door, And ate every plank of the dirty oak floor. "The Prince of Lies strikes" he yelled from the muck, I just ordered a round and wished him some good luck. (Oh Gods...) He’s waiting for omens, for blood, and for fire, I’m just waiting for someone to quench my desire... for ale! So sing hey, sing ho, for the loons in the black, Who worship a god with a knife in their back! They’re masters of murder, or so they opine, But can’t tell their left foot from a goblin’s behind! (Hahaha!!) He claimed that his faith made him iron and stone, Then whimpered like a babe when he was left all alone. He challenged me there to a duel to the death, But I won by just laughing 'til I ran out of breath! (Vicious Mockery!) His terrifying aura? A bit of a joke, if I must tell! He tried to vanish, but he ran out of smoke, and fell! So if you spot a Cyricist, don’t reach for your steel, Just offer the poor lad a decent hot meal. They’re about as lethal as a toothless old hound, And half as much fun when there’s booze to be found! So sing hey, sing ho, for the loons in the black, Who worship a god with a knife in their back! They’re masters of murder, or so they opine, But can’t tell their left foot from a goblin’s behind! They serve chaos and death... and they do it quite poorly, They’ll end in a ditch, most definitely, surely. Poor bastards. Barkeep! Another ale... (video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5BNSkFWibco)
