Like tides of the raging ocean,
The night washes across the sky with a fluid motion.
With a pass of his hand,
The night wind tartars up the sand.
From a granite pedestal, he watches.
Silhouetted against the moonlight, he debauches.
Poised at the old, dead tree,
He waits with demented glee.
Armed with his staff and his skill,
He stands alone atop the cemetery hill.
When the moon stands high,
When it is full and the midnight hour grows nigh,
To the night sky, his arms raise.
For just a moment, he basks in the moon’s exhilarating phase.
Then, in a voice that sounds of thunder,
He bellows, “Lords of shadow, courts of the night, grant me the dead, that I may tear this world ascunder!”
Lightning streaks the sky.
Away in fright, the crows fly.
And again, he calls upon the spirits from under,
“Lords of shadow, courts of the night, grant me the dead, that I may tear this world ascunder!”
Around him, the soil rustles and breaks.
The sky splits and the Earth shakes.
“Yes, Yes! Give me thy power!
Soon all that dwell with the living will cower!”
From the accursed soil, rises a festered, rotted hand.
Then two, then ten, forming a hellish and dangerous band.
For with the dead at his side, the world of the living is his to defile.
No longer to God will anyone for hope answer.
Now, all will bow only to the Necromancer.