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One hooded figure on the hill at night, Two dim embers for eyes alight. Three soft taps from his raven’s beak, Four cold whispers that chill the weak. Five black feathers drift to the floor, Six slow steps toward your door. Seven shadows bend at his command, Eight dark wings blot out the land. Nine low murmurs coil through the air, Ten pale fingers brush your hair. Eleven breaths that freeze your spine, Twelve carved runes that form a sign. Thirteen calls from the raven’s thr