The hooded scoundrels await their death
We are of those chosen few
They bare the marks of the sin
They're nothing like us but they try to destroy our trust

Their books and chants will harm none
For we will stand strong, in the pit of the night

For the arbolist is growing weak, and the servants die off

The time has come when there's no one left to hold your hand

Stand your ground
There is talk of strange folk aboard