Эдвард Элрик
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Son of the dragon, of night and the slaughter
Whose wisdom his unshaven youth will belie
Will wake from her slumber the lake's only daughter
To answer the calling she cannot deny.
The Kingsword will stand in its scabbard of granite
The quicksilver forged in the pools of the sky
A rumour explained by the one who began it
A boy's hand will grasp it, a man's raise it high!