The Ancients Gore

I must run, hold my role,
I must breath, deep to heave,
They have risen, scent my gore,
Chase my shades into the cold,

The Ancients call, I`m bound by their fall
Move I cannot, I`m bid by their halt.
Their azure sights, stir my mind,
Loose their vile upon my sight.

Hounds they cause over my feet,
Chain me upon their feast,
Gone was I so do my hope, 
Ripped into their urge of blood.