Round the circle are but five
idles carved of alabaster.
Grotesque forms, they come alive;
scarcely moving, calling "Hastur".

The oily smoke the fire sends drifting
beads upon the pallid skin
of the statues, ever shifting,
churning, seething, caving in.

Eyes of worried stone that scatter
spectral lamplight on the caster,
shifting in inhuman matter,
calling out again for "Hastur".

Unseen currents swell the air
a waxing tide of bleak prehension;
horrid shapes begin to glare
on the edges of perception.

Shadows of demonic vision
dance the circle ever faster
glimpse the terror of their mission
as the final scream is "HASTUR!"