There's a mountain in the country
Where no-one ever goes.
Where the only creatures living
Are insects, rats and crows.

There's a village on the mountain
Where no-one's lately been.
Where all the food has rotted
And the wood is mildewed green.

There's a cottage in the village
Where the smell of death prevails,
And the wind sweeps through the rafters
Like some spirit's forlorn wails.

There's a room within the cottage
That's colder than the rest.
Where something walks there still,
Cannot be laid to rest.

There's a skeleton in the room
That bears a fire's mark
And around it sweeps an ebon sphere
That chitters in the dark.

There's a presence 'round a skeleton
That almost clothes its form
That bides its time and brews
A necromantic storm.

There's a mountain in the country
With a village, ill-begotten,
And a cottage homes an Evil
Filled with vengeance, unforgotten.

Penned by my hand on the 16th of Scarlatan, in the year 384 AF.