“The Nephilim’s blood, arrogance slain; king of kings are we, invoking these wails of woe? As we govern, they must fall…Is it Asherah we hate? Or, her ideas we fear? Sheath thy roman sword in her heart of discord: the green dragoness, grips his throat with razor’d talons while her arrows fly to find their target…I wept not, thine frigid fortress relinquish’d a crippling coldness to take what breath is left from the chest of Magnus…Hold of the Death Throes…the Blemmeys horde falls frozen, in the wake of thine wrath; none shall be spared from thine icy warpath!”
“Waves of demons repell’d by the giants as crimson waves crash upon She’ol; spells of valor are vex’d forever by the cold weather of winter; he freezes our needs…Take all that’s left crippling coldness and wear thy frost as a crown with no regret; from thy frigid fortress, the grayness of death is the grip of Otis. The howling hound of hell wields his wick’d weapon of war and Sarpedon dies; sweltering flames consume his body as thine broken tears calm the pile of ashes; 1000 lashes break through the burden of a soul; heaven, how high you held that sin at hand as sweet darkness is thine only light; I am Elam, and I swear an oath to reclaim the vessel of Sarp’don!”
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