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Lower helms to hide your fear
And wave your torches bright
For even moonlight dreads to look
Upon our rites

Through the trees, profane effigies
Stand tall, bathed in the blood of
your sons and daughters

Hark!
The summoning is close at hand
You’ll hear us howling in the night
With nightmares birthed from hallowed lands
We’ll have you bastards bled by morning light

As death circles you, usurper, know this: From the putrid carcasses of your hopes, we feed. And die assured; at long last your eyes will look upon your home again. We will carry them there on roads paved with your dead.

We’ll ink the ending of your tale
In death and fire
As you’re flayed amidst the laughter
Of those we sired

Hark!
The summoning is close at hand
You’ll hear us howling in the night
With nightmares birthed from hallowed land
We’ll have you bastards bled by morning light

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