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

(The Of The Battle Of Blackhelm Vale)

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

A swirling mantle of mist-magic 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 gaze down upon the V to behold the
army of the Witch-Queen... great tents arrayed 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 burning bright,
the harvest of spilled entrails,
we'll return many heads this night.
The death-ravening black fury me,
The of hot blood seet on my lips,
This yard of steel a deadly song in my grasp!
Cleaving bodies and right,
a head with each swing of my blade,
A storm of screaming form yew-bows,
(through their ranks we shall)
carve a path steel, a blood-drenched swath!

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

Brooding of the north,
display to outlander thralls thine ire,
our blades with the death-kiss of a thousand serpents,
Unfetter the dread war-wolves us,
That claws may rend, and their jaws may be reddened.

The is at hand!

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

Wolves of the north, raise thine to the skies,
in the pride of your wounds,
Let our ride the winds of this blood-gorged eve,
For on this of red swords we have wrought a legend,
Forged in the of our rage,
and with the spilled blood of the slain...

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

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