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The Chronicles of War:

The vast armies of Mytos K`unn, marshalled by a sorceress of

great power known as

Zyrashana the Witch-Queen, had been cutting a swath through the

Eastern Kingdoms

since high summer the preceding year. Empowering her troops with

great sorceries, she

had seen all opposition fall before the ravening swords of her

forces since the first bloody

campaign; the invasion of the ancient and noble realm of Delania.

The aftermath of the

final battle had seen the systematic slaughter of the Delanian

royal family, and the torture

and execution of all those who had been loyal to their banner.

During the ensuing months,

more kingdoms and satrapies toppled before the might of Zyrashana`s

legions,

commanded by the fearsome and unswervingly loyal battle-lord

Talus Ebonfyre, a man of

sublime brutality whom many beleived to be possessed by a demon-spirit

from the dark

realms. Emboldened by their victories and the expansion of their

queen`s dark dominion,

the hordes of Mytos K`unn began the incursion into the lands

of the Northern Tribes,

beginning with the grim and brooding territories south of the

Snow Kingdoms... the rugged

homelands of the warlike clans which had been recently united

into a strong realm by the

powerful warrior-king Caylen-Tor, a man known to his allies and

enemies alike as the Wolf

of the North. Thinking the barbaric tribesmen little threat,

the Witch-Queen intends a

largely unopposed march throught their lands to strike at the

wealthy and fertile realms

beyond the Mountain Kingdoms to the west... but Caylen-Tor has

vowed that a searing

torrent of blood and steel shall meet all those who deign to

enter unwelcome or drive their

standard unbidden into his land...

As grim winter slowly yields to spring, the armies of Mytos K`unn

begin their march

northwards, and news of the advance of the Witch-Queen`s forces

into Blackhelm Vale,

the valley known for centuries as the Gate to the Northlands,

soon reaches the highland

stronghold of Caylen-Tor. Grimly taking up his sword and spear

and donning the woad of

war, he vows that Zyrashana shall pay in blood for every league

she has dared venture in

his sacred lands. Scouts soon return with the information that

the enemy is camped at the

base of the valley, preparing to march with th dawn. The court

shamans forsee rivers of

blood and untold carnage, and great battlespells are woven as

Caylen-Tor leads his vastly

outnumbered Northlander warriors to the misty, moon-swathed expanse

that is Blackhelm

Vale. Legends say that the blood of many kings has been spilled

on the dark earth of the

valley over the generations, and Caylen-Tor promises to his grim

gods that the earth will

once again drink deep this night. With his army silent and brooding

beneath the moon, he

knows that whatever the outcome, this night shall see a legend

of war written in blood and

the deaths of men... a legend none shall soon forget...

The War Testament of Caylen-Tor (On the Night of the Bloodying of Swords):

O` grim gods of battle, empower us this night...

Anoint us with the crimson rain, feed our steel with slaughter...

Let every blow be a killing blow, grant us victory, or a warrior`s death.

Come, moon-fogs, Descend to cloak our numbers, the heady scent

of battle beckons,

My ash-hafted spear feels good in my hands, girt `round with

spells (our flesh gloriously)

woad anointed,

Ravens awaiting slaughter soar high above, blood-worms bloat

on red carnage,

I`ll carve the moon-wheel in their flesh, as havoc churns the heather!

A swirling mantle of mist-magic swathes us, powerful spells woven

by the fen-witches of

the great mere... Deep night and moon-mist shall be our allies

as we surge into the fray!

At my bidding, the fog clears for a brief moment, and I gaze

down upon the valley to

behold the army of the Witch-Queen... great tents arrayed upon

the heather, powerful

steeds tethered, the light from countless burning brands illumining

the night, many

warriors standing, weapons in hand... aye, all sword fodder.

Entwined in war-fogs...

Entwined by war-spells...

Blessed in blood as raven-saters, slake the thirst of steel burning bright,

Reap the harvest of spilled entrails, we`ll return with many

heads this night.

The death-ravening black fury fills me,

The spatter of hot blood seet on my lips,

This yard of steel sings a deadly song in my grasp!

Cleaving bodies left and right, a head falls with each swing of my blade,

A storm of shafts screaming form yew-bows, (through their armoured

ranks we shall)

carve a path with steel, a blood-drenched swath!

And the thirst of the earth shall be slaked with blood at the

fields of carnage...

A staggering sea of crimson, a towering mountain of ravaged flesh,

All enraptured by the searing kiss of steel,

All surfeit from supping deep of the grim chalice of battle...

Brooding gods of the north, display to these outlander thralls thine ire,

Envenom our blades with the death-kiss of a thousand serpents,

Unfetter the dread war-wolves within us,

That their claws may rend, and their jaws may be reddened.

The bloodying is at hand!

My spear hammers into the chest of a warrior, and bright blood

erupts from his lips as he

falls to the heather. I turn aside a vicious swordthrust and

my own blade snakes out to

cleave the neck of the attacker, shearing through his veins in

a shower of dark red. An

enemy blade opens my shoulder to the bone, but I sweep my axe

out in a deadly arc, its

iron head rending armour and biting deep into flesh. Talus Ebonfyre`s

abdomen yawns

open and he staggers back as his intestines spew forth in a pulsing

mass. I sunder his

head with another blow as he falls and his skull yields to spill

its steaming contents to the

earth. As I watch, a writhing, shadowy form rises from the smitten

corpse of the Witch-

Queen`s warlord and flees howling into the night... I vault to

the saddle of a riderless black

war-horse and seize the banner of Mytos-K`unn... for every one

of us that has fallen, we

have taken five of the enemy screaming with us... the battle is ours!

Bright moon, gleam o`er moor and heather, wood and vale, deep fen and lake,

Grim mountains crowned with snows, great rings of stones, black

`neath the stars,

The storms extol our ancient glory, great mounds feed us, power

from the sacred earth.

With faith and steel we walk our shadowed paths, our blood runs

as fire, swords blessed

by sorcery.

Wolves of the north, raise thine steel to the skies, revel in

the pride of your wounds,

Let our victory-song ride the winds of this blood-gorged eve,

For on this night of red swords we have wrought a legend,

Forged in the fires of our rage, and tempered with the spilled

blood of the slain...

O` grim gods of battle, empower us this night and always,

Anoint us with the crimson rain, forever feed our steel with slaughter...

Let every blow be a killing blow, grant us eternal victory, `til

we die a warrior`s death.

And so did Caylen-Tor turn the armies of Mytos K`unn back from

the frontiers of his

northern kingdom. Those enemy soldiers who fled the field as

the mist lifted and their

banner fell, are hunted down and brought to their knees before

the king. Summoning a

surviving warrior Mytos K`unn, Caylen-Tor gives unto him two

gifts with which to return to

his queen; one is the fallen, sundered banner of Mytos K`unn,

the other is the cloven head

of Talus Ebonfyre. The king`s words ring out over the blood-drenched

moor: "Take this

message back to your queen... if ever again she deigns to strike

against my people, the

slaughter this night will seem as naught compared to the havoc

I shall visit upon her then."

When news of the defeat and the fearsome message of Caylen-Tor

reached Mytos K`unn,

Zyrashana`s spells of regal dominance waned, and her many courtiers

and councillors,

liberated from the imposition of subservience, plotted against

their queen, `til soon she

was driven from the great royal palace by her own elite guard,

her throne seized by an

ambitious baron who had won the favour of the nobles and mages

of the realm. Evading

inprisonment and surviving only by her mastery of spellcraft,

Zyrashana fled to the

satrapies of the east, and nothing more was seen or heard of

her for some considerable

time...

Lyrics: Byron

Music: Jonny Maudling

The Chronicles of War:

The vast armies of Mytos K`unn, marshalled by a sorceress of

great power known as

Zyrashana the Witch-Queen, had been cutting a swath through the

Eastern Kingdoms

since high summer the preceding year. Empowering her troops with

great sorceries, she

had seen all opposition fall before the ravening swords of her

forces since the first bloody

campaign; the invasion of the ancient and noble realm of Delania.

The aftermath of the

final battle had seen the systematic slaughter of the Delanian

royal family, and the torture

and execution of all those who had been loyal to their banner.

During the ensuing months,

more kingdoms and satrapies toppled before the might of Zyrashana`s

legions,

commanded by the fearsome and unswervingly loyal battle-lord

Talus Ebonfyre, a man of

sublime brutality whom many beleived to be possessed by a demon-spirit

from the dark

realms. Emboldened by their victories and the expansion of their

queen`s dark dominion,

the hordes of Mytos K`unn began the incursion into the lands

of the Northern Tribes,

beginning with the grim and brooding territories south of the

Snow Kingdoms... the rugged

homelands of the warlike clans which had been recently united

into a strong realm by the

powerful warrior-king Caylen-Tor, a man known to his allies and

enemies alike as the Wolf

of the North. Thinking the barbaric tribesmen little threat,

the Witch-Queen intends a

largely unopposed march throught their lands to strike at the

wealthy and fertile realms

beyond the Mountain Kingdoms to the west... but Caylen-Tor has

vowed that a searing

torrent of blood and steel shall meet all those who deign to

enter unwelcome or drive their

standard unbidden into his land...

As grim winter slowly yields to spring, the armies of Mytos K`unn

begin their march

northwards, and news of the advance of the Witch-Queen`s forces

into Blackhelm Vale,

the valley known for centuries as the Gate to the Northlands,

soon reaches the highland

stronghold of Caylen-Tor. Grimly taking up his sword and spear

and donning the woad of

war, he vows that Zyrashana shall pay in blood for every league

she has dared venture in

his sacred lands. Scouts soon return with the information that

the enemy is camped at the

base of the valley, preparing to march with th dawn. The court

shamans forsee rivers of

blood and untold carnage, and great battlespells are woven as

Caylen-Tor leads his vastly

outnumbered Northlander warriors to the misty, moon-swathed expanse

that is Blackhelm

Vale. Legends say that the blood of many kings has been spilled

on the dark earth of the

valley over the generations, and Caylen-Tor promises to his grim

gods that the earth will

once again drink deep this night. With his army silent and brooding

beneath the moon, he

knows that whatever the outcome, this night shall see a legend

of war written in blood and

the deaths of men... a legend none shall soon forget...

The War Testament of Caylen-Tor (On the Night of the Bloodying of Swords):

O` grim gods of battle, empower us this night...

Anoint us with the crimson rain, feed our steel with slaughter...

Let every blow be a killing blow, grant us victory, or a warrior`s death.

Come, moon-fogs, Descend to cloak our numbers, the heady scent

of battle beckons,

My ash-hafted spear feels good in my hands, girt `round with

spells (our flesh gloriously)

woad anointed,

Ravens awaiting slaughter soar high above, blood-worms bloat

on red carnage,

I`ll carve the moon-wheel in their flesh, as havoc churns the heather!

A swirling mantle of mist-magic swathes us, powerful spells woven

by the fen-witches of

the great mere... Deep night and moon-mist shall be our allies

as we surge into the fray!

At my bidding, the fog clears for a brief moment, and I gaze

down upon the valley to

behold the army of the Witch-Queen... great tents arrayed upon

the heather, powerful

steeds tethered, the light from countless burning brands illumining

the night, many

warriors standing, weapons in hand... aye, all sword fodder.

Entwined in war-fogs...

Entwined by war-spells...

Blessed in blood as raven-saters, slake the thirst of steel burning bright,

Reap the harvest of spilled entrails, we`ll return with many

heads this night.

The death-ravening black fury fills me,

The spatter of hot blood seet on my lips,

This yard of steel sings a deadly song in my grasp!

Cleaving bodies left and right, a head falls with each swing of my blade,

A storm of shafts screaming form yew-bows, (through their armoured

ranks we shall)

carve a path with steel, a blood-drenched swath!

And the thirst of the earth shall be slaked with blood at the

fields of carnage...

A staggering sea of crimson, a towering mountain of ravaged flesh,

All enraptured by the searing kiss of steel,

All surfeit from supping deep of the grim chalice of battle...

Brooding gods of the north, display to these outlander thralls thine ire,

Envenom our blades with the death-kiss of a thousand serpents,

Unfetter the dread war-wolves within us,

That their claws may rend, and their jaws may be reddened.

The bloodying is at hand!

My spear hammers into the chest of a warrior, and bright blood

erupts from his lips as he

falls to the heather. I turn aside a vicious swordthrust and

my own blade snakes out to

cleave the neck of the attacker, shearing through his veins in

a shower of dark red. An

enemy blade opens my shoulder to the bone, but I sweep my axe

out in a deadly arc, its

iron head rending armour and biting deep into flesh. Talus Ebonfyre`s

abdomen yawns

open and he staggers back as his intestines spew forth in a pulsing

mass. I sunder his

head with another blow as he falls and his skull yields to spill

its steaming contents to the

earth. As I watch, a writhing, shadowy form rises from the smitten

corpse of the Witch-

Queen`s warlord and flees howling into the night... I vault to

the saddle of a riderless black

war-horse and seize the banner of Mytos-K`unn... for every one

of us that has fallen, we

have taken five of the enemy screaming with us... the battle is ours!

Bright moon, gleam o`er moor and heather, wood and vale, deep fen and lake,

Grim mountains crowned with snows, great rings of stones, black

`neath the stars,

The storms extol our ancient glory, great mounds feed us, power

from the sacred earth.

With faith and steel we walk our shadowed paths, our blood runs

as fire, swords blessed

by sorcery.

Wolves of the north, raise thine steel to the skies, revel in

the pride of your wounds,

Let our victory-song ride the winds of this blood-gorged eve,

For on this night of red swords we have wrought a legend,

Forged in the fires of our rage, and tempered with the spilled

blood of the slain...

O` grim gods of battle, empower us this night and always,

Anoint us with the crimson rain, forever feed our steel with slaughter...

Let every blow be a killing blow, grant us eternal victory, `til

we die a warrior`s death.

And so did Caylen-Tor turn the armies of Mytos K`unn back from

the frontiers of his

northern kingdom. Those enemy soldiers who fled the field as

the mist lifted and their

banner fell, are hunted down and brought to their knees before

the king. Summoning a

surviving warrior Mytos K`unn, Caylen-Tor gives unto him two

gifts with which to return to

his queen; one is the fallen, sundered banner of Mytos K`unn,

the other is the cloven head

of Talus Ebonfyre. The king`s words ring out over the blood-drenched

moor: "Take this

message back to your queen... if ever again she deigns to strike

against my people, the

slaughter this night will seem as naught compared to the havoc

I shall visit upon her then."

When news of the defeat and the fearsome message of Caylen-Tor

reached Mytos K`unn,

Zyrashana`s spells of regal dominance waned, and her many courtiers

and councillors,

liberated from the imposition of subservience, plotted against

their queen, `til soon she

was driven from the great royal palace by her own elite guard,

her throne seized by an

ambitious baron who had won the favour of the nobles and mages

of the realm. Evading

inprisonment and surviving only by her mastery of spellcraft,

Zyrashana fled to the

satrapies of the east, and nothing more was seen or heard of

her for some considerable

time...

Lyrics: Byron

Music: Jonny Maudling

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