Feel the hunger 'neath the skin,
The crawl in the dark, the voice within.
We worship Fear, our Mother crowned,
In teeth and soil and slaughter drowned.

Wrack and roll and death and pain,
We eat the weak, we drink the slain.
Our knives are sermons, sharp and thin,
They carve new truths 'pon the skin.

In burial robes our forms are bound,
We raze the shrines to hallowed ground.
Our tongues are black with poisoned prayer,
Each word a fang, each breath a snare.

We wait, we rot, we bide, we bloom-
In silence first, then shrieking doom.
No soldiers march, no warnings sound-
Just death and pain, and hallowed ground.

We do not rage; we cultivate.
Decay is slow, but sure as fate.
One whispered lie, one stolen breath-
And cities kneel to rotten death.

So Faithless, come. O' cowards, kneel.
We are the wound that will not heal.
We feast in dust, we reign in stain-
Wrack and roll and death and pain.



Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 22nd of Ios, in the year 11 AC.