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Echoes of night sighs come from the bowels of the earth with the horn of judgment.

Ancient hordes descend from the mountain to quench the souls of enemies forever

with the cold steel of their axes and swords. Screams of pain are heard deep in the dark forest

among the soot of the air where the trunks of the old oaks have become the guardians of the forest.

Guardians of yore soldiers of all reminiscences of the dark old days

where their menacing darkness stood still and their aura never to be thrived with.

In the depths of oblivion the beasts of nature announce the arrival of the storm

of a thousand thunders the gods can't do anything.

Such fierce force, such dark designs utter defeat, no remorse, no mercy

the screams are but melodies from this symphony of blood. Amputated torsos, severed legs...

The corpses of thousands of warriors lie in the gray mud of the mountains

in the clutches of the pit of darkness.