The damnedWe are hunted day and night,By those that hate the light,Tormented forever more,About those that are no more...They fell in midst of nigh,With battleragers in their sightWich had a gross demand for goreWich nothing more then blood could cureAnd take they did, with speed of dartThe blood of those wich were pure of hart,BLoody, battered, severed heads they took,Whille barking savadge courses at their loot.And whille we weaklings that were left behindWere tending to those few that had survivedThe heretics made evill incantations to the ThorneWith not even so much as remourse or mourn.But such evills will ultimatly