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On the northern winds |
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I ride Under a dead and pale sky |
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With a black cloak of ravenwings |
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That carry me over the gloomy hemisphere |
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In the darkness of destruction |
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Lays an old and cold creature |
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Maimed by the power of the witchking |
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Bearer of the floods of heathen sorcery |
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An aerial servant meets me there |
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Beyond the dimension of fear |
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And guide me to this darkened place |
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Of heathen sorcery |
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The witchking is drawing nearer |
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Slowly returning from his tomb of hellburning horror |
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Demons of demensions turn their their heads |
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To the mist avoiding his eyes of delusion |
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A blast of a fireball burns my suffering soul of madness to dust |
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I can no longer see but |
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I hear the snearing laughter as |
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I slowly cease |
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Possessed by the power of darkness |
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Brought to him by the ancient crafts of pagan fears |
