Serpentspire

We are the nameless forgotten the ones who answer to the forbidden lord

A plague of horror that slumbers in the writ of loathsome passages

A doom that should not exist desirous of mans extirpation see through pitch black a thousand lifetimes away

An arid stench a faltering few remain in these darkest of days fire breathes through me a serpent of chaos the fallen of the abyss

Beckon forward cries of torment heathen of thine of generations I speak we call unto you we invoke thee