Whisperers of the ghosts,
Diviners by the dead,
Symbols of the underworld,
A disease within one's head.
Born by empty darkness,
Channeled by one's pain,
Given up one's vitality,
In exchange for the insane.
Controlled by melancholy,
Influenced by the Bane,
Blessed with a strength,
That no willpower can restrain.
Danced with the devil,
Played a dangerous game,
Taming evil spirits,
Lived up to their names.
Destroying one's dreams,
Burning down sage,
Resurrecting the evil,
Within every mage.
Tempering the weather,
Tears crash with rain,
Sorcerers rage for help,
Mixed with the mundane.
'Bone conjurers' cried the Jews,
'The demons are to blame!
For the trouble they have caused,
For the trouble that remains!'
'Nonsense!' said the Christians,
'It is forbidden by the Lord!'
But little did they know,
About the truth they ignored.
In about a month's time,
A battle will begin,
The boulevard of the Blessed,
And the silhouettes of the sinned.
The creatures of the dead,
The chooser of the slain,
Will then release a darkness,
A darkness that cannot be reined.
'Rise!' boomed the Death bringer,
'For I summon for your soul,
To exist in the dimensions,
Of your home and our world!'
Granting life to the dead,
The broken spirits rise,
Filled with cursed frustration,
Filled with Heaven's despise.
Releasing the evil spirits,
And freely do they roam,
To suck out the souls,
In the heart and bone.
Charged by the cursed,
The Diviners of the dead,
Possessed by the ghosts,
