Eluchil strums his lyre and begins a martial song:
“Though ever the windy weather be cold,
Or burning sun beat down all day
We will no rest until the old
Battle and stife are put away.
How can we rest until the lands
Under Elwe’s House do fall?
From forests green unto hot sands
They must heed our elven call.
The forces of Darkness do assail,
And orcs march out to spread dark night,
But we, so firm, will never quail
before those who defy our might.
And so now we must march to war,
Although we be as lief to sing
Or dance or laugh forever more.
We set to hum the taught bow string.”