The hooded scoundrels await their death.
We are of those chosen few.
They bare the marks of the sin.
They're nothing like us but they try to destroy our trust.
Their books and chants will harm none
For we will stand strong, in the pit of the night.
For the arbolist is growing weak, and the servants die off.
THE TIME HAS COME WHEN THERE'S NO ONE LEFT TO HOLD YOUR HAND
Stand your ground
There is talk of strange folk abroad
We are of those chosen few.
They bare the marks of the sin.
They're nothing like us but they try to destroy our trust.
Their books and chants will harm none
For we will stand strong, in the pit of the night.
For the arbolist is growing weak, and the servants die off.
THE TIME HAS COME WHEN THERE'S NO ONE LEFT TO HOLD YOUR HAND
Stand your ground
There is talk of strange folk abroad