A tiefling lullaby by Chris Nichols
Who in Sigil runs the show?
Sixteen secrets that we know…
Anarchists love fire and blade,
They pull down those who’ve got it made.
Athar spit in the preacher’s eye,
While false powers bleed and die.
Bleakers laugh and go insane,
There’s no point and life is pain.
Ciphers act on whim and hunch,
Weird and mystic are that bunch.
Dustmen are naught but cold hard death,
Life is so much wasted breath.
Fated count the jink they make,
Never give if you can take.
Godsmen tumble end o’er end,
Seeking always to ascend.
Guvners order realms of dreams,
Making rules and counting beans.
Hardheads are an ordered lot,
March left, march right, no time for thought.
Indeps are a motley crew,
Bloods and berks and shouters too.
Red Death saw your dirty deed,
They’ll make you pay until you bleed.
Sensates reach to feel it all,
True bloods stand, while bubbers fall.
Signers think we’re in their head,
But we’ll remain when they’re all dead.
Sinkers revel in decay,
By entropy we’ll pass away.
Xaosmen embrace discord,
Random chaos is their word.*
[* Alternatively, “Bow-wow you puce wombat running Bob fence.”]
Sigil’s guarded by She Who Flays,
The Lady rules, now and always.