As a wind it washes by
A dark cloud of organic thoughts
Burning as you breathe
Burning inside as a disease

It flashes by, in an instant gone
Drowning, pulling, burning you
It rushes, rips and sears through

The ability of the necromancer
As they transform into air
A trademark remains, in black
Your body, their lair

Penned by my hand on the 14th of Sarapin, in the year 494 AF.