[Verse 1] He left behind screams for the silence of streets, Traded chains for cold nights and the sound of defeat. Tattered dreams and a blade he could barely afford, Said, “I’ll find my own path, not theirs, not the sword.” [Verse 2] First came the rage—he tried being a beast, A barbarian’s fury to slay and to feast. But his anger fell quiet, like embers in rain, No storm in his heart—just the echo of pain. [Verse 3] He trained with the fighters, learned stances and forms, But his hands shook with doubt, never weathered the storms. The sword felt like weight, not an arm of his will, Each strike a reminder that he couldn’t kill. [Chorus] He tried to be something, tried every way, But none of the paths ever asked him to stay. No rage, no resolve, no arcane spark, Just a soul walking blind through the endless dark. He wasn’t the chosen, no tale ever told, Just a cast-off of gods, too tired, too cold. [Verse 4] He studied the scrolls, cast sparks in the air, But the runes mocked his mind, like they weren’t even there. The wizards just sighed, “Perhaps you should rest.” “Perhaps,” he replied, “but I gave it my best.” [Verse 5] He courted a patron with blood and a pact, But the book he had bought came with pages all black. No demon would whisper, no fae took his call— Even cursed deals require promise, after all. [Verse 6] He sought the bard’s charm, tried singing a spell, But the crowd only laughed—he performed like a well. The rogue said “Be quiet,” he stepped on each floorboard, They left him alone when he tripped on his sword. [Bridge – The Storm Awakens] Then came the storm, with no prayer, no plea, Just thunder that shattered the silence in he. The sky split wide and the winds pulled him near, And the Weaver stepped through, crystal-clear. No mercy, no blessing—just purpose in flame, A god not of comfort, but one who came. To sever the chains, not to sanctify pain, To walk at his side through the howling rain. [Final Chorus – Thread Rewoven] No rage, no resolve, no arcane spark, But now there's a tempest that lights up the dark. He’s not what they wanted, not holy or grand, But he wields the divine with a storm in his hand. A cleric of thunder, of vengeance and sky— The one they discarded, now walking on high. [Outro – The Severance] So mark where he passes, where lightning will crawl, Where prayers go unanswered, he hears them all. The Weaver walks with him, and gods take their stand— For he is the storm, And the severing hand.