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Raise up your hands and voices,
Let fill your hearts with pride,
Above the churning waters we
Stand strong and unified.
X'yahma's voice joined in the chorus, though his soft voice was drowned out from below by shouts and yells. Every bell since the yoke was slipped- every bell since the Viceroy's death- the freed people sang the song again. He sat precariously balanced on the edge of a roof, sitting out another verse as he took a drink to wet his throat.
It was well into the night, but the braziers were all ablaze with hot coals as the men and women- liberators and the oppressed alike- danced in the streets. A few pyres were burning in plazas as Imperial effects were gathered and burned, sending plumes of smoke blacker than the night into the sky, carried by the wind back towards the land from whence they came.
Beyond the silent watchmen,
Upon the great loch's shore,
Now stands a mighty citadel
Our rock forevermore.
He sang another verse, turning his gaze towards Thanalan. "Wilred, you whoreson, we did it!" He shouted into the sky before taking a long drink, draining nearly half his bottle. He sighed as he caught his breath. "But you 'ad to go an' die on us." But, in a sense, they had Ilberd- backstabbing shite- to thank for this. For better or worse. "I'd give a' arm an' leg for you to see this." He finished the rest of the bottle, tossing it over to the small pile of now five empty bottles, before opening another. "This one's for you, Widargelt. I 'alf-expec' you to move in by next Win'sday."
He drank to his mentor, either ignorant or uncaring about the headache he'll surely wake with the next morning. He'd likely stumble into his home and nurse the headache while Loonh- the sweet thing- would yell at him for drinking heavily. And then it'd upset little Ruha, making him truly pay for his indulgence tonight.
He thought about Wilred's wife, and the son he left behind. "I s'pose I should tell 'er the goo' news." Noticing he began to sway, he pushed himself backwards. Too far- he fell over onto his back and dropped the bottle. It rolled across the roof, spilling most of its remaining contents over the dry roof. "Damn it." A waste of perfectly good spirits. He rolled over onto his side, unable to stand as he drank away his senses. After three vain attempts, he simply went limp, accepting his fate.
Though storms of blood approach ye,
Hells open, Heavens weep,
No goodly soul need ever fear
The measure of His Reach.
Out of tune, out of time, he slurred the last verse as he felt consciousness slip away, only fearing the lashing he'd surely get from Loonh.