[Intro]
[Worn fiddle plays the original five-note motif beside a low tavern fire.]
The Griffin hangs straight now, repaired and repainted,
The border is quiet, the old king attainted.
Children made older have children of their own,
And nineteen river names are cut deep into stone.

[Verse 1]
A gray-haired woman sweeps near the hearth,
No crest on her coat and no record of birth.
A dwarf with a blank axe delivers the ale,
Then pauses whenever someone starts Dorrin’s tale.
A horned old servant counts candles at four,
Though no one remembers who hired him before.
A quiet man carves little foxes from pine,
And cannot explain why he paints each one white.

[Refrain]
At the Crooked Griffin, again, new boots cross the floor,
New hands test the hinges of the splinter-mended door.
The kingdom calls for heroes when the old accounts are paid,
And every peaceful generation thinks the danger has decayed.

[Verse 2]
That winter, five travelers arrived after rain:
A priest with no temple, a thief with a chain,
A scholar from southward, two sisters with spears—
All bright with the hunger that outshouts wiser fears.
They bought the blind singer a cup by the fire;
He tuned an old fiddle with no maker’s wire.
“Tell us of treasure,” the younger one said.
He answered, “Treasure is what follows you dead.”

[Refrain]
At the Crooked Griffin, again, new boots cross the floor,
New hands test the hinges of the splinter-mended door.
The kingdom calls for heroes when the old accounts are paid,
And every peaceful generation thinks the danger has decayed.

[Instrumental]
[Fiddle, acoustic guitar and low hurdy-gurdy repeat fragments of all five heroes’ themes.]

[Verse 3]
The singer told no names, for no names remained,
Only an oath without rank and a valley time-stained.
He sang of a brother remembered by fact,
A devil denied and a future cut back.
He sang of a mage with no magic to fear,
Who carved painted foxes and sold them each year.
The five travelers listened, then laughed at the phrase:
“Roll once for glory, twice for the grave.”

[Bridge]
“Old man,” said the scholar, “that warning is worn.
No dice could survive if their bodies were torn.”
The blind singer stopped with his bow in the air;
A red point of color had rolled from her chair.
Then another clicked softly beside her left boot—
Silver numbers intact on a blood-colored cube.

[Final Refrain]
At the Crooked Griffin, again, no wihnd touched the flame,
Five new faces leaned toward dice that carried no name.
The gray woman dropped her broom; the dwarf forgot the ale;
The horned man counted one dawn left and turned a little pale.
At the Crooked Griffin, again, the blind singer found the stave:
[Lark]
“Roll once for glory—”
[Narrator]
The whole old room answered,
[All]
“Twice for the grave.”

[Outro]
No hand claimed the dice. No hand pushed them away.
Outside, the first snow covered tracks from the day.
Two red bones waited where the firelight bled—
Remembering the living. Remembering the dead.
[The fiddle holds the unresolved fifth note; two bone clicks answer from beneath the table.]
