In lands where shadows whisper tales of old,
There dwells a craft both eerie and profane,
A legend, strange and dark, as tales unfold—
The necropants, a cursed, chilling chain.
From corpse to cloth, the grisly work begins,
With skin stripped bare from those no longer near,
A ghastly garb, its wearer’s power wins,
To steal the life-force, hold it close and dear.
But wear it long, and it will twist your soul,
For greed will seep from every stitched thread,
A curse upon the heart, it takes its toll,
Until the wearer’s mind is filled with dread.
So heed this warning from the world of night:
Some ancient power is not worth the fight.
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