From Larian's forge, a blood masterpiece wakes,
In Faerûn's veins, where Bhaal's hunger takes.
A quest for slaughter, in shadows we thrive,
Mind flayers fall as the chosen arrive.

Companions bend to the Urge's dark call,
We carve our path through the weak and the small.
Heed this, lost soul: embrace the blade's game,
For Bhaal's true heirs rule in murder's name!



Once you’ve played this delight,
Every other game will just feel trite.

Baa baa, little lamb,
rose from sacrifice’s dam,
The One Who Waits has set you free
to rule a cult beneath the tree.

By day you cook, you clean, you preach,
and keep your flock within your reach;
By night you roam through dungeons deep,
where heretics their secrets keep.

But dungeons clone the ones before,
and chores soon feel like endless chore;
Your flock’s just hunger, beds, and mess—
no minds to sway, no real distress.

Two games are glued, yet seldom blend,
the thrill runs out before the end;
Once crown is won, the world stands still,
just busywork to test your will.

Build them beds and bless their meals,
spin the wheel of fate that deals;
It’s cute and grim, with wicked fire—
Praise be the lamb the cults require!