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This twisted, wretched place shadowed by the utmost darks of Hell. In dreams of black beyond the bounds of a withered witch's spell.

Where the doors surely are locked, where the sun threatens to wane. Where shamblers dwell in dim moon light beyond the warmth of of day. Liars line the roads at dawn, watchful eyes are upon you. Held sacred weapons to the sacred revealed, to be unleashed upon this council of Hell.

Blood flows the streets at night where wolves cry out for flesh. Where a horrible curse taints the woodlands nearby with the forms of the walking dead.

Unholy inversion of hope twisting the faith of the meek into hate, driven insane by the dark one. To bring forth the foul biddings, he speaks. The undead are among us, at dawn they shrink back to their silken beds. They dance by night and drink the blood of a child's broken neck.

His spires are growing taller still, their shadows spreading throughout the land, freeing the evils that sleep within the weaker minds of man.