TheSourpatch

Hears you the callings of the Sycamore? Or the whispers of the wind? Findsie us in the trees and greens, Where our spines bes wreath and vine, Our fists bes bark and twine. Heathens, they call us, Men living in trees- WRONG! No trees left to live in, No forests left to nourish, Concrete perverses soil- CRIME! We bes the old ones, and the free ones! We bes the the bloody, dirty, clever ones! So do not trifle with us tricksies, Or when night smothers light, And darkness hides the foolsies' sight, Manfools' fears we'll come to reap! We'll dance and laugh in manflesh meat! This bes a warning to you foolsies, Stay inside. Fear the night. So dance

Bow your head, In Sithis name come bow your head. The blood is fresh, The blade still hot. Come, sheath your weapon- Another victory in your favor, One more victory for the hand print of the damned. Brotherhood of accursed, A family tied by his sanguine will. Listen to that peerless sound- The Void it calls! It calls, It calls, It sings! Deep within he sits in silence, Breath once her's now his. Breath easy, Today your fate is unclear. Today the Dread Father sits by his unholy bride- Assuaged... for now. Now hold your breath- Daylight falls but night steals in, Beware! Your name might yet be called. What was that?! Look over