the lostwe are the restlessthe wounded, the helplessthe shadows on the wallsand the whispers in the hallswe are the lonelythe doubting, the hopelesswe are the lost.
youngwe are the young, the restless, the hopelesswe march to the drums of the damnedwe walk in the shadows, the fields of the battleshine our lights from burning candleskeep pressing onward until this is overwe are the demons, the damned, the hatedwe'll stand together, alonefacing the fight that is all that we've ever knowwe'll fight and we'll fall at the scream of the angel's songs
fearLying in the darkCreeping in they startSurrounding meBlinding so I can't seeGrasping with cold dead handsBefore me, fear standsAnd watches, waitingThe cold makes me start shakingAnd it's very breath of DeathThat's breathing down my neck.
Azreal'sThe room was dark, saved for a few lighted candles in the sconces on the walls. It was eerily quiet and the young man's footsteps echoed on the marble floor as he slunk closer to the altar at the front. He approached quietly as he heard a girl's voices murmuring softly.She was kneeling in a little alcove set back from the main room. He recognized the statue at whose feet the girl was kneeling. Saint Jude. The Patron Saint of lost and desperate causes. However she was not praying the prayer of Saint Jude. It sounded like one that she had made up. Wait, maybe she was not praying to the Saint, for another name had passed her lips. Azreal. The name sounded vaguely familiar to him, but he did not know why."Protect me, help me to become what I was meant to be; show me what it is that you would have me do. Reveal to my mission, trust me with your chosen ones, Azreal, and I shall do whatever may come before, whatever is asked of me, be it giving my life or simply my heart. Guide me, Dark One