A frail old man lives upon a lost hill,
A spectre of a man,
A man with power over life and death,
He is the Necromancer,
A god over mortal flesh,
Warts and all.

A wave of the staff,
Rotting hands pulse skyward,
A chanted incantation,
Banshees shriek in the black,
A flourish of the hand,
Maggots surge from pus-filled corpses.

A sacrificial blade drips crimson,
Coffins and crypts are clawed open,
A forbidden ritual,
Bones rattle as if sentient,
A dark grin,
The dead horde begins its carnival march.

A twisted mind once filled with thoughts of family,
His rancid creations are a hollow replacement,
Their eyes no longer see,
Their minds no longer reason,
Their hearts no longer beat,
And no longer love or feel.

Necro

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Comments
  1. Osharlequin says:

    Reblogged this on WorldofHarley and commented:

    Necromancer

  2. xsiscox75 says:

    Wooo, this is really good. Makes me want to do a Necro short. Love your work, so far!

    • Osharlequin says:

      Necromancers are my favourite wizardly types. Always enjoy their shenanigans. I would certainly read that!

      Thank you very kindly!

      The Oldschool Harlequin

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