The sanctuary was on the knoll,
Destroyed by years of war.
The building gray, the moon at bay,
The magic here no more.
But yonder down the valley,
A small village was there.
Its residents few, with darkening hue,
For time had been unfair.
And all because of Gresalmur,
A warlock said to be.
His gleaming eyes and vehement lies
Had made the village flee.
For Gresalmur had a Skeleton,
Made from toughest stone,
And occult power and a Prindon flower
Are what held together its bones.
And over time it terrorized,
Led by Gresalmur’s hand.
It killed the young, the demons sung
At Gresalmur’s strong command.
And once he claimed the village,
In the sanctuary he hid.
Below the earth, with all his worth,
And the Skeleton did his bid.
So few dared pass the village,
With the Skeleton on the prowl.
The people shivered, their lips quivered
When the Skeleton let out its howl.