The sea before the serpent-prow did break.
The wind was trapped inside the black-cloth sails.
The pounding drum did mask the rower's wails,
And demons of the sea swam in the wake.

A dark rain fell as though a widow's veil,
Along with lightning-flash and thunder-peal,
Viscarne the butcher grasped his vessel's wheel
The villain of a thousand fractured tales.

He did not spare his blade from those who kneel,
Or from the young, the weak, the sick, the old.
The cruelty in his heart was often told,
And those that faced his blade would never heal.

The target of the grim fleet was Sunhold.
An Altmer prize long sought by Orgnum-king—
The golden port once graced with gryphon wing,
A victory that would not go untold.

Viscarne sailed in, so our ancestors sing.
But found a harbor empty now, and still.
No ships to burn, no innocents to kill.
No one to feel the serpent's bitter sting.

Then from the palace sitting on the hill,
An army dressed in gold came riding forth.
A crushing wave of Altmer from the north,
To bring the sun's warmth to the Maormer chill.

They killed Viscarne's second, third, and fourth,
The butcher's ships were burning in the bay.
The Maormer knew that he had lost the day,
His forces fallen having shown their lack of worth.