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At the Walls of Puddleby
by Torin

The Orga armies gather east --
A storm of Spite and Fury beast.
Red Hemlock lightning cracks the air,
And Shaman fires singe our hair.

Their vermine allies never far,
Persistent death with jaws ajar.
Silver, dark, and tawny too,
Their furs be bloodstained when we're through.

To Darshak Blades along the beach
Shall we a steely lesson teach!
And with each blow a cry of "BEER!"
Keeps at bay all trace of fear.

The restless dead stir from their graves.
Foul magic drives those necro-slaves.
They strive to conquer all that's good,
To blacken field and hill and wood.

Though many exiles fallen lie,
Our healers raise them, by and by,
To join the battle once again
Renewed in spirit, health, and ken.

The moonstone glow -- without that light,
Soon would fail our strength to fight.
Glorious is the touch of life!
A bulwark in these times of strife!

Fen, Human, Halfling, Sylvan, Zo,
Thoom, and Dwarf -- all freely go
Together, bound by friendship's ties.
In unity our triumph lies.