Featuring: Nehushtan
Grumium


The field glowed softly in the autumn moonlight,
as the black forest bled utter darkness.
Across the tormented field, frost slowly formed,

and venom drifted through the cold air.

Below the moon and stars, monoliths reflected light,

and fog slowly crept from the edges of the weals.
Slithering looming vapor, was silent as the dead,
and a chill of suffering permeated the fall air.


Whisper from the moonlight,
and a cry in the wind

(Why did they ignore the light?)

No wind blew forth, as the mist rolled on in,

and the air was still, like the bowels of a tomb.
No cricket dined, not even a nightingale,
only the defining silence of the cold unknown.


And then it seethed into an abhorrent silhouette,
and defining cries wailed forth in complete silence.

Tormented in a resonance of misery and blood,
the cold mass lurched out into the moonlight.


They laid upon Brock field,
hundreds, lifeless and still.
Some would find their way home,

for others the battle rages on?