The Demon- Queen Therian

A princess of power, a queen of the fist.
The freer of slaves broke the chains from our wrists.
She seeks to free all of Nithalin's daughters,
The Korzians will cower as we revel in their slaughter!
Sisters and slaves will reign and fight.
Putting an end to injustice, and making wrongs right.
The queen of the thralls who damns us all,
She rises up above any, and all.
In her wake is an endless tide of blood,
As if unleashed by a dam, Nithalin floods.
Battle and war, hatred and more,
Clenched fists through bone and flesh tear out in gore.
Their march won't stop until justice is wrought,
In fresh graves of shame their enemies rot.
In front walks the Demon, her host follows behind,
And the terror of their visage in your nightmares you'll find.
From afar you might think them maidens fair,
These brutes and destroyers with their murderous glares.
Balled fists of rage with knuckles of death,
The oppressors in fear draw their final breath.
See cowards run from their death sure to come,
Their true colors shine as clear as the sun.
Though rage fades and anger abates,
Godhall, for the souls of the great, awaits.
: The queens of old rule no more, their thrones now broken and cold.
The kings of old fail no more, their lies and secrets told.
The deals they made, with lives they played, and the people footed the bill.
It’s better now they’re in the ground, it’s better that their hearts are still.
The kings of old will order no more the slaying of our fathers, and sons.
Our greatest regret is the time not spent undoing the evil they’d done.
Sorrow and pain, an endless refrain, and the cycle once more turns o’er,
The peace of the past did not last. Do we dare to hope for more?
Revolution’s price paid not once but twice, a path from which we can’t turn.
Behind the Demon strides our ancient pride, at her whim the unjust burn.
Whose right is right? Whose justice might prove true on both sides of the coin?
Whose pain is greatest? Whose fury untainted by their pride, or heart, or loins?
In the ashes of clashes and rash, cold actions, what hope may we mortals find,
When the dust of war settles and wounds turn to scars, and the future is now behind?
Such pain remains, but by pain reclaimed, we stand where our forebears ruled.
Would they praise us and cheer our names, or would they spit on us for being fools?
Our chains are broken but we still have not spoken, for our fists cannot form words.
When may we unburden, taste peace at last, and magic, from our hands, unburden?
Blood and meat and our pounding feet, our souls are sold to the war.
Korz returns, and kills, and burns, and will return forever more.
No songs to sing, no dreams to dream, our future has turned to dust,
And our best hope now is to die with a sound, before our Nar Bhul rust.
Power and pain will bring glory again, but glory for glory’s sake.
Is a thing not to chase, for it cannot be replaced once that glory breaks.
We follow, she leads, for the Demon sees, and we are but hers to command.
Our fame is our shame that cannot be contained, but our history is one with this land.
So, let Korz come, let them beat their drums. They will find a harder foe here,
For we warriors of Nithalin, we blessed with the Fists, know naught of retreat, or fear.