Swarming heat makes clouds in frost
Our breath triumphs in the wooden wombs
Clasping at the men locked in combat
Fodder for the gods' intent.
The grey clouds shine the time is now
Hit me with your finest swing of hungover welded steel
I taste the bitter souring
mead soaring through the wet ages.
Make your blades, trudge the marshes
This is the key to the journey through ages
Not is the magic of candle and spite
This is the magic of action and might!
supported by 4 fans who also own “Wet English Forests”
A more melody-driven album than Battle Staffs... with a tighter feel to the song structures, but still retaining that rich, doom-sodden heaviness. This release came out four years after Battle Staffs... and it’s always good to see a band further develop their sound, without losing one drop of the raw energy that drew you to them in the first place Ken Goodey