Jackal's Son
For years the witches have gathered
Practicing their satanic rites of insanity
How many people have they butchered
Secluded, in this forested den of iniquity
Open fields surrounding the plateau
Making it hard to approach undetected
The going will be arduous, and slow
Foolishly believing they are protected
The moon always seems to be full
A shadow my only friend this night
I step over the warning ring of skulls
Easing toward the campfires light
I see four hags have selected a child
They begin branding his pale white skin
Odor of burning flesh, senses defiled
As the boy screams, my legs weaken
Pulling my broadsword free of its sheath
Slipping quietly behind the four witches
Barely feeling the sharp bite of its teeth
A just reward for practicing their fetishes
Standing beside the child I view the brands
The number 666, adorns his petite frame
Could this be the boy spoken of in legends
Born of Jackal's, heir to Satan’s domain
Gazing into his eyes, lost in the darkness
Aware I’ve saved the stealer of souls
I will not be a part of this evil madness
Raising my sword, one more head must roll
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