Talbotville Gore is forging something unholy.

The ritual is not yet complete.
The gateway has been opened,
the full rite yet concealed.
The altar waits unspoken,
the reckoning unrevealed.

What lies beyond is drawing near,
in silence and blood, it grows.
The veil is yet to be lifted here,
where embered chanting flows.

Dark hands still shape the work below,
the temple forged in bone and steel.
Each nail driven deep and slow—
a structure not meant to heal.