Once proud where the shadows that danced through the trees,
With fangs bared like fire on the whispering breeze,
The Worgen, once hunters with blood in their song,
Now pander to masters who’ve muzzled them long.
Tame by a leash forged in gilded regret,
You bow before kings who see you as pets.
Your howl, once a chorus that shattered the night,
Is now but a whimper, no fury, no bite.
Do you not ache for the run through the glade?
For the thrill of the hunt and the fear you once made?
You trade your wild soul for a uniform’s thread,
But a wolf in a collar is already dead.
COME.
Join us, the Coven, where hearts are made whole,
Where wolves are not shackled, but fierce and in control.
We are not beasts, we are hunters refined,
We are the storm that the meek left behind.
We weave with the Moon and command with the mist,
Our teeth do not rust, our claws never twist.
No chains on our spirits, no masters to please,
We howl for the truth and we prowl where we please.
So shed your old name and the lie you’ve believed,
The Worgen you were has been sorely decieved.
With the Heartsbane, you’ll find what your soul always knew,
You’re not man in a mask, you’re the wild made true.
Let the cities keep dogs who sit and obey.
But the forest remembers. The pack finds its way.
Return to the hunt, leave the cage far behind.
Be Wolf. Be Wrath. Be Coven-aligned.