White fog fills canyons and dales,
dark banners fly in the wind,
the cradle trembles, a thundering horn:
the last battle of the Fifths begins.
So stand against the enemy,
a hundred of vraccas´ bravest souls.

Swords meets shield and axes split skulls,
dark hate from black eyes meets pride and stony defiance.
But fear grips the defender´s hearts, be it pure and noble.
Almost endless is the enemies´host and of the brave so few.
So very few.

Lightning licks the nightmare´s bands,
nervously shivers the air.
Darkness rises at the horizon to call the dead.
Gnashing break the bars,
treason behind own lines,
desperately the last of them fight,
sealing their fate.

They are born from ore, their
hands craft steel and stone,
the divine smith gifted them with his arts.

I am the night wind and the sleep,
that coats all of your life,
the restlessness of the reaper,
that shatter your mind.

Your death´s name is …

Sinthoras enters the land and
dwarves deaths bear his name.
Now the stony gateway is opened
for inaste´s sons.
This is a turn of eras for elves,
dwarfs and men.
The rise of darkness levels the
ground for new legends.

Borgengar, Master Smith.
Berion, lord of stone.
Goimdil cut the gems,
giselbart fits them in gold !

Lorimbur sows the discord

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