| Twenty Norsemen ahorse, clad in furs and gloomy armour tread the roads of mist
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| Among the ancient mountains, passage to beyond the realms of man
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| Passing crypts of kings and wizards, of priests and noble leaders
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| A valley filled with fog, travel without light
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| The gate was magnificent, like sculptured of ice, shimmering through the misty
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| veil
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| With a blue light of unearthly origin
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| Beyond was another valley, surrounded by an unconquerable wall of mountains
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| It was of purest, gleaming white except for the sky
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| Which was black and starless
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| And a pale looming fullmoon hung in the midnightly scene
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| Below’s a frozen river, and trees like giant, misshapen skeletons
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| And the black stone monument on a crystal hill
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| Bathed in the moonlight like a pock wound on porcelain skin
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| Onward, ever onward…
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| With swords drawn the Norsemen stormed into the castle’s hall
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| Spirits of the damned, cursed to drift forever
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| Hellish shapes of stone, wicked claws and fangs
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| Tearing in bloodlust the flesh from the bones
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| The Norsemen were falling like flies
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| But only the strongest, the greatest of all could climb the highest spire
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| (Atop the highest spire)
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| Atop the highest spire, stare into the night
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| See the constellions black on blackest night
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| The burning wheels and machinations, that keep the world on turning
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| And the chaos deep within
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| Feel rage and madness, boiling hatred and the will to survive
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| Sight becomes a tunnel, a vortex of unshining stars
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| And what remains is silence… |