Crooked timbers claw the mist Stilted over sucking mire Venom beads on fungal lips Boglight feeds the ritual fire Hooded malice stirs the pot Iron belly brimmed with bile Roots recoil beneath the rot Moonlight fractures on his smile Little fiends in circles reel Cloven feet strike sparks from bone Bonfire tongues unseal the fen Smoke ascends to claim the moon Poison flowers choke the reeds Marsh exhales and darkness feeds Den of the Defiler! Where black waters learn to breathe Den of the Defiler! Something feeds beneath the peat Hidden where dead willows lean One scout grips the bark in dread Awe and horror lock his limbs Revulsion crawls beneath his flesh Seeking signs of missing men He finds their sigils in the mud Hollow helms and splintered shields Sink beneath the bubbling scum Cauldron vomits venom streams Green tongues crawl across the mire Each one hunts the scout’s warm breath Guided by the ritual fire Slowly turns the hooded head Though no warning sound was made Crooked grin unhinges wide He has sensed the watcher’s gaze Dead branches snap The imps fall still The scout draws steel The mire reveals Threnody of footsteps Through pestilent mire The hunter is hunted By the laughing Defiler
