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 TESTAMENT OF
(ON THE NIGHT OF THE OF SWORDS):
O' grim of battle, empower us this night...
Anoint us with the crimson rain, feed our with slaughter...
Let every blow be a killing blow, grant us victory, or a death.
Come, moon-fogs, Descend to our numbers,
the scent of battle beckons,
My ash-hafted spear good in my hands,
girt 'round with (our flesh gloriously) woad anointed,
Ravens awaiting soar high above,
bloat on red carnage,
I'll the moon-wheel in their flesh,
as churns the heather!

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

in war-fogs...
by war-spells...
Blessed in as raven-saters,
the thirst of steel burning bright,
Reap the of spilled entrails,
we'll return with many heads night.
The death-ravening black fury me,
The spatter of hot blood on my lips,
This yard of sings a deadly song in my grasp!
bodies left and right,
a head falls with each of my blade,
A of shafts screaming form yew-bows,
(through their armoured we shall)
carve a with steel, a blood-drenched swath!

And the of the earth shall be slaked
blood at the fields of carnage...
A staggering sea of crimson, a mountain of ravaged flesh,
All enraptured by the searing of steel,
All surfeit from supping of the grim chalice of battle...

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

The is at hand!

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Bright moon, o'er moor and heather,
and vale, deep fen and lake,
Grim crowned with snows,
great of stones, black 'neath the stars,
The extol our ancient glory,
mounds feed us, power from the sacred earth.
With faith and steel we walk our paths,
our blood as fire, swords blessed by sorcery.

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

O' grim 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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