A necromancer dances to the vibes of
grave and rot.
Standing in shadow.
Beholding the night on a crystal blue day.
Upon his finger a ring of ivory most pale,
a grinning skull to the great beyond.
Mock him not for death is but a game.
A chant, a cry filled with foulness.
She stands in his grip.
Power flows and the sings upon his will.
Fear him, for death is but a game.
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