They once were men, but not these days.
See their quest for power
in their starving gaze.
A people once so, prospered and proud.
Since then let in,
much dark they've allowed.
A thirst unquenched, always wanting more.
Greed has sickened them, stricken to the core.
In a desolate place where the sky burns red.
And a noxious cloud ever hangs overhead.
Through the mountain pass,
beyond the magma blasts.
Way down there where it bubbles through the ground.
Down there's where, where the Sterchin be found.
They conjure poison, exhale disease.
They'll show no pity towards your mercy pleas.
Their journey's thinned them out, stretched them tall.
They feel no fear, nor remorse at all.
With such great will,
to destruct, to destroy.
Breathing death and decay is their one true joy.
Sick spreaders, rot-bringers,
with a waving of their fingers.
Lift the dead up, make them walk.
Their wicked touch, long it lingers.
Practice arts of black, dark rituals too.
Things of this are what the Sterchin, they pursue.
Glowing white eyes, and pale burned skin.
The scars they carry
show their desires of within.
To melt away, the flesh of all those who oppose.
Soon they'll have their way, is how their prophecy it goes.
The plague-bringers of old,
are coming so I'm told.
in their wake, dead and cold.
Green smoke's in the skies,
the elders so advise.
Grab your swords, swords and boards.
The Sterchin lords are on the rise.
Copyright © Grobb Johnson