Luyện nghe bài hát To Dethrone The Witch-queen Of Mytos K'unn

(The Legend Of The Battle Of Vale)

THE CHRONICLES OF
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THE WAR OF CAYLEN-TOR
(ON THE OF THE BLOODYING OF SWORDS):
O' grim gods of battle, us this night...
us with the crimson rain, feed our steel with slaughter...
Let every blow be a blow, grant us victory, or a warrior's death.
Come, moon-fogs, to cloak our numbers,
the scent of battle beckons,
My ash-hafted spear feels in my hands,
girt 'round spells (our flesh gloriously) woad anointed,
awaiting slaughter soar high above,
blood-worms on red carnage,
carve the moon-wheel in their flesh,
as churns the heather!

A mantle of mist-magic swathes us, powerful spells woven by
the fen-witches of the great mere... night and moon-mist shall be
our allies as we surge into the fray! At my bidding, the fog
for a brief moment, and I down upon the V alley to behold the
of the Witch-Queen... great tents arrayed upon the heather,
powerful steeds tethered, the light countless burning brands
illumining the night, warriors standing, weapons in hand...
aye, all fodder.

in war-fogs...
by war-spells...
Blessed in as raven-saters,
slake the thirst of steel bright,
the harvest of spilled entrails,
we'll return with many this night.
The death-ravening fury fills me,
The spatter of hot seet on my lips,
This of steel sings a deadly song in my grasp!
Cleaving bodies and right,
a head falls each swing of my blade,
A storm of shafts screaming yew-bows,
(through their ranks we shall)
carve a path steel, a blood-drenched swath!

And the thirst of the earth shall be
with blood at the of carnage...
A staggering sea of crimson, a towering mountain of flesh,
All enraptured by the searing of steel,
All surfeit from deep of the grim chalice of battle...

gods of the north,
display to these thralls thine ire,
Envenom our blades the death-kiss of a thousand serpents,
the dread war-wolves within us,
That their claws may rend, and their may be reddened.

The is at hand!

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Bright moon, gleam o'er and heather,
wood and vale, fen and lake,
mountains crowned with snows,
great of stones, black 'neath the stars,
The storms our ancient glory,
mounds feed us, power from the sacred earth.
With faith and steel we our shadowed paths,
our runs as fire, swords blessed by sorcery.

of the north, raise thine steel to the skies,
revel in the of your wounds,
Let our victory-song the winds of this blood-gorged eve,
For on this night of red we have wrought a legend,
in the fires of our rage,
and tempered with the spilled of the slain...

O' grim gods of battle, us this night and always,
Anoint us with the rain,
feed our steel with slaughter...
Let every blow be a blow,
grant us victory, 'til we die a warrior's death.

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