Amon Amarth

Amon Amarth

Once Sent from the Golden Hall

A storm rolls in from the sea. Covering the land with black thunder clouds. Rain whips the ground at their feet. As they come ashore in this foreign land.

Thunder brakes the silence. Of five hundred men assembled on shore. Gazing through the misty rain. At the mountain not a mile away. So dark and silent it stands there. The mighty AMON AMARTH. Reaching for the cloudcloked skies. So grim and fearful in might.

With the wind in their backs they start walking. Decisive men of the north. They strive through this darkened land. With only mount doom in their eyes can see. A forest of one thousand spears awaiting. Awaiting the battle that will be.

A cry of war emerges. Echoes over the field. Warriors run like wolves up to the sloaps. Bodley charging the enemy lines.

With weapons so fearsome and sharp in their hands. And shields of Oakwood and steel. They slit open stomachs and split sculls to the jaw. Intestants cover the field.

The defenders are weak in this brutal war. The northmen have power and guts. A bloodshed like no one has seen before. None can escape their cuts.

Arrows with fire fly through the air. Torching houses and shields. The Vikings can feel victory is near. As the enemy heedlessly flees.

A gust of wind blows in from the north. Clearing the clouds away. As twilight falls and the stars come forth. And the seawolves return to the bay.

Corpses lie scattered all over the field. For the ravens to eat as they please. The mountain is now left there behind. As they sail with the first morning breeze.

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