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"bog john" unisex t-shirt
"bog john" unisex t-shirt
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$42.50 CAD
Regular price
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$42.50 CAD
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In the shadow-hung woods where the mist weaves like phantoms between the gnarled trees, Bog John, the necromancer, seethed within his crumbling tower. For eons, his dominion had been undisturbed, a land where the silence was only broken by the whisper of the dead. But now, the clatter of life intruded upon his solitude. A settlement had risen on the outskirts of his gloom-drenched moors—a blight of warmth and cheer against his reign of decay.
Bog John watched from a tattered window as the townsfolk built their homes, laughter carrying on the wind like an insult. His hands, knotted as the roots of ancient oaks, clutched a skull—a conduit for his dark arts. With a voice that crackled like the dry rattling of bones in a crypt, he invoked curses upon the interlopers, but the village thrived, ignorant of the malevolence that loomed but a stone's throw away.
The necromancer's patience, worn thin as the shroud of a long-forgotten corpse, finally snapped. If the living dared encroach upon the land of the dead, then death they would meet. In the deepest hour of the night, when the crescent moon hung low and mournful, Bog John unleashed his horde. Skeletal warriors rose from the earth, their sockets aglow with unholy fire. The night air was filled with the clatter of bones as they marched toward the unsuspecting village.
The first to fall were the sentinels, their screams dying in their throats as the relentless tide of death overcame them. Panic erupted as the dead invaded, tearing through the village like a plague. Yet, the people of the settlement were not without their own might. Clerics and paladins, once protectors from marauders and beasts, now turned their steel and spells against Bog John's minions. The battle raged, the night air rent by spellcraft and the clash of steel on bone.
As dawn approached with the promise of respite, the people of the village, weary but unyielding, drove the last of the necromancer's forces back. They stormed his tower, tearing down its decrepit walls, and there they found Bog John, slumped and seemingly defeated.
The villagers, believing they had quelled the darkness, did not notice the sly glint in the necromancer's eye. They returned to their homes, carrying the body of Bog John, intending to give him a proper burial to prevent his return. But this was his design. By nightfall, they laid him to rest in the village cemetery, a place teeming with fresh sorrow from the night’s losses.
Weeks passed, and the village healed its wounds. Where once stood fear, now grew determination and life blossomed anew. But beneath the earth, where the necromancer lay, a transformation occurred. His essence seeped into the soil, communing with the bones of the fallen. In the taverns and homes, people whispered of shadows that seemed to linger, and a chill that settled even in the warmth of hearth fires.
Then, on an eve like any other, the ground of the cemetery stirred. A gnarled hand, as black as the earth, clawed its way out of a grave that bore no name. Bog John had become something else, not quite spirit, not quite flesh. He walked unseen amongst the townsfolk, a wraith wrapped in the guise of mortality.
One by one, villagers began to vanish. A cobbler here, a blacksmith there, each disappearance accompanied by a night where the fog lay a bit thicker, the darkness a tad more oppressive. Whispers of a curse spread like wildfire, but none suspected the humble stranger that had joined their midst, the man whose eyes held the remnants of a defeated necromancer.
Bog John, now the specter within, watched and waited. His power grew in silence, fed by the fear and despair that his subtle presence nurtured. He learned their ways, listened to their stories, and waited for the night when the veil between worlds grew thin.
And when that night came, the dead would rise once more, not as an army to be fought, but as an inextricable part of the village itself. For Bog John had become the heart of the settlement, and the people, his unwitting acolytes in a dance macabre that would not end until the living and the dead were one and the same, and the necromancer's revenge was complete.
* * *
Made from 100% organic ring-spun cotton, this unisex t-shirt is a total must-have. It's high-quality, super comfy, and best of all—eco-friendly.
• 100% organic ring-spun cotton
• Fabric weight: 5.3 oz./yd.² (180 g/m²)
• Single jersey
• Medium fit
• Set-in sleeves
• 1 × 1 rib at collar
• Wide double-needle topstitch on the sleeves and bottom hems
• Self-fabric neck tape (inside, back of the neck)
• Blank product sourced from Bangladesh
The sizes correspond to a smaller size in the US market, so US customers should order a size up.
This product is made especially for you as soon as you place an order, which is why it takes us a bit longer to deliver it to you. Making products on demand instead of in bulk helps reduce overproduction, so thank you for making thoughtful purchasing decisions!
Bog John watched from a tattered window as the townsfolk built their homes, laughter carrying on the wind like an insult. His hands, knotted as the roots of ancient oaks, clutched a skull—a conduit for his dark arts. With a voice that crackled like the dry rattling of bones in a crypt, he invoked curses upon the interlopers, but the village thrived, ignorant of the malevolence that loomed but a stone's throw away.
The necromancer's patience, worn thin as the shroud of a long-forgotten corpse, finally snapped. If the living dared encroach upon the land of the dead, then death they would meet. In the deepest hour of the night, when the crescent moon hung low and mournful, Bog John unleashed his horde. Skeletal warriors rose from the earth, their sockets aglow with unholy fire. The night air was filled with the clatter of bones as they marched toward the unsuspecting village.
The first to fall were the sentinels, their screams dying in their throats as the relentless tide of death overcame them. Panic erupted as the dead invaded, tearing through the village like a plague. Yet, the people of the settlement were not without their own might. Clerics and paladins, once protectors from marauders and beasts, now turned their steel and spells against Bog John's minions. The battle raged, the night air rent by spellcraft and the clash of steel on bone.
As dawn approached with the promise of respite, the people of the village, weary but unyielding, drove the last of the necromancer's forces back. They stormed his tower, tearing down its decrepit walls, and there they found Bog John, slumped and seemingly defeated.
The villagers, believing they had quelled the darkness, did not notice the sly glint in the necromancer's eye. They returned to their homes, carrying the body of Bog John, intending to give him a proper burial to prevent his return. But this was his design. By nightfall, they laid him to rest in the village cemetery, a place teeming with fresh sorrow from the night’s losses.
Weeks passed, and the village healed its wounds. Where once stood fear, now grew determination and life blossomed anew. But beneath the earth, where the necromancer lay, a transformation occurred. His essence seeped into the soil, communing with the bones of the fallen. In the taverns and homes, people whispered of shadows that seemed to linger, and a chill that settled even in the warmth of hearth fires.
Then, on an eve like any other, the ground of the cemetery stirred. A gnarled hand, as black as the earth, clawed its way out of a grave that bore no name. Bog John had become something else, not quite spirit, not quite flesh. He walked unseen amongst the townsfolk, a wraith wrapped in the guise of mortality.
One by one, villagers began to vanish. A cobbler here, a blacksmith there, each disappearance accompanied by a night where the fog lay a bit thicker, the darkness a tad more oppressive. Whispers of a curse spread like wildfire, but none suspected the humble stranger that had joined their midst, the man whose eyes held the remnants of a defeated necromancer.
Bog John, now the specter within, watched and waited. His power grew in silence, fed by the fear and despair that his subtle presence nurtured. He learned their ways, listened to their stories, and waited for the night when the veil between worlds grew thin.
And when that night came, the dead would rise once more, not as an army to be fought, but as an inextricable part of the village itself. For Bog John had become the heart of the settlement, and the people, his unwitting acolytes in a dance macabre that would not end until the living and the dead were one and the same, and the necromancer's revenge was complete.
* * *
Made from 100% organic ring-spun cotton, this unisex t-shirt is a total must-have. It's high-quality, super comfy, and best of all—eco-friendly.
• 100% organic ring-spun cotton
• Fabric weight: 5.3 oz./yd.² (180 g/m²)
• Single jersey
• Medium fit
• Set-in sleeves
• 1 × 1 rib at collar
• Wide double-needle topstitch on the sleeves and bottom hems
• Self-fabric neck tape (inside, back of the neck)
• Blank product sourced from Bangladesh
The sizes correspond to a smaller size in the US market, so US customers should order a size up.
This product is made especially for you as soon as you place an order, which is why it takes us a bit longer to deliver it to you. Making products on demand instead of in bulk helps reduce overproduction, so thank you for making thoughtful purchasing decisions!
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