Skull's Profile

A chilling wind whips through the hollow. Winter's bite grips your spine. The very air you breath stings. Snow swirls all around you, yet, the trees... the trees are motionless in the gale, unaffected by the cold, biting winds.

You open the doors to a crypt that has been shut for over a century. The stench of decay is long gone but the air is heavy, musty and weighted with an uneasiness you have never before felt... It is almost as if the mausoleum itself is aware of your intrusion... Or, perhaps, something still yet stirs within...

The road ahead is of the dead
So travelers take heed
And lightly tread o'er those that bled
For lands and kings and greed.
The victor spared no man that dared
To try and take his throne.
So thus he paved a road that's made
Of vanquished soldiers' bones.
The road ahead is full of dread
So travelers beware
And tarry not lest you be caught
By the echoes of despair.
For the road beneath your wandering feet
Of dead men once so brave,
Will clutch and grab and wrench and drag
You to an early grave.