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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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