The figures gather
And a woman walks forward with a stagger.
The cultists align themselves into circles
With marks on them of eldritch swirls.
They tie her to the alter
The high-priest with dagger in hand doesn't falter.
He plunges the dagger in to her chest
While chanting the incantations without rest.
With one last gargled scream
Her body bursts forth like meat in through a seam.
From her body comes a beast
Made of the flesh of man and beast.
The cultists bow down to there masters servant
With its eyes dark and horns curved and bent.
It speaks in a dark tongue that's heard for miles
The cult accepts its new orders with smiles.
The meeting disbands
Apostles of the god of many hands.
They go out to bring fourth many more
And make the world like a open sore.
Sincerely,
Sigmund Creed
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