Brethren,
solid ground under my feet,
now you're staggering monsters
before my steeps.
My mind nourishes the mystic
of this crusade
and your hands feed only
the scepticism of your battles.

Armoured by formed refugence
I roll on the daily pains
Armed by doubtful solutions
I try to fire
at the shades opposed to me.
I can't trust you who're lost
at the thought of an overtime
where life comes after dying
where the past revival in the present.

"Old Friend"
dust your corroborant armour and
help me to sack
the haunting hordes
that are pursuing me.

The Army of the Illusionist Baron
needs refoirnements
hard to find in a plot
of Profan Conjurers.