Langsyne, a king there was� He was sublime and lionesque-redoubted. The numerous folks were trepidating before his lurid face and spear-hand, held the vasty empire by the harsh reins. But the destiny's path of every mortal is leading inevitably to the vital shears' blade. And eventually The Silver-haired Queen came to the haughty king for her dire tribute. A lot of water has passed under the bridge of time thenceforth, but�
After one thousand and four hundred summers and winters the spirit of the ancient agadic king of Goths is relived to rule the night, avenge, love, war and do one's will, somebody who won't have the mundane law of life's circle did cast into the timeless depth of reincarnations in low forms, condign for his nefarious piacles while alive. The spirit of Germanareh, thus he hight by mother aborning on the faith of wisewoman's advice, hath stood to linger on the earth after agonizing death, without pacation that await for all men. Belike Providence (or Darkness, itself) made the other fate for king, mayhap for castigation or something yet, I don't know. His spirit was asomatous, feeble and bedrid by centuries of sufferings, unknown for the living human thankfully. He couldn't create or destroy. The borders of shade of mountain and forest, where the body of Germanareh was buried, was the bound which embinded him like wife to husband. Whilom fierce spirit of great warrior, conqueror, the bane of Europe pined and cherished no hope for the redemption by the grace of God, but once he has felt the approach of some people, there were the coven of witches.
They� though, no, let our tensons open all to you�


"Welcome to this graven legend!"

Moonlight trickleth through the clouds and the space converts to steam
Left behind the rays of passion approach the nightmare of dead man's dream
Far away nobody lives, and all enshrouded in darkness
Ghost-fiends gnawing human bones, they are cruelty and madness!

It was their first mistake, it was their last mistake
They've built the cemetery 'pon damned and holy place
Against the azure sky and 'neath the paly moon
For triumphal entrance forth from the mother womb

There's no time and there's no freedom ye can't hide in Pluto's kingdom
Dread and icy cold penetrateth through the evil eyes of sinner
He knows all about anguish only he has rights of winner
Hence the cemetery's erected 'round the village start devildom

Welcome to asylum of the lost souls - to the graveyard of the wild pain
Those who'll risk their lives at late night will be captives in the chill-steel rain
Only there immortal soldiers lie in endless languish boredom
'Cause their souls have doomed for penance they must stay in racking thraldom

Ghosts are breathing o'er the graveyard - fog spreads 'bove the sleeping hollow
Screams of spirits melt in silence - which could be the sole haven
Now the graveyard's full of demons - they're inspiring fear and horror,
Feeding by the pure mays' juice, nourishing with preux knights' gore

Gore!!!

There're only fearful woods around where birds of prey sing praise to death
Olden mountains guide the feebles to the meeting with their last breath
Beasts, which look like Hadean monsters waiting for the cruel murthers
They're just faithful sons of evil trying to be devils' soldiers

That's His domain, reign of dusk, blood and death with loud wargs' bark
People can't revolt and fight, 'cause their souls are by His side

(There are wisdom and dolours of ages sojourn in the oblivion).

Three warlocks and nine witches have gathered for the summoning of Devil in the tenebrious
glade within Nebelforst on Sabbath. Bodeful thunderous Night. The warlocks boil the loathsome
ointment in the silvern cauldron, tapestried with pelt and glyph-scored with druids' hierograms.
They troll incantations and stir the potion at the same time.
The rite of Invocation begins!

First warlock: Thrice the branded cat hath mew'd.
Second warlock: Thrice, and once the hedge-pig whin'd.
Third warlock: Harpier cries, 'tis time, 'tis time.

First warlock: Round 'bout the cauldron go
In the poison'd entrails throw.
Toad, that under frosty stone,
Days and nights, has thirty one
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' th' charmed pot.

Chant of witches: Double, double, toil and trouble
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

Second warlock: Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and howlet's wing
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth, boil and bubble.

Chant of witches: Double, double, toil and trouble
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

Third warlock: Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witch's mummy, maw, and gulf
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark
Root of hemlock, digg'd i' th' dark
Liver of blaspheming jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew,
Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse
Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips
Finger of birth-strangled babe,
Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,
Make the gruel thick, and slab.
Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,
For th' ingredients of our cauldron.

Second warlock: Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.

First warlock: By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes
Open locks, whoever knocks.


In lieu of any fiend from netherworld Sabbat evoked by incantations and hellbroth-irrigation the mighty spirit of the dead gothic king Germanareh. Weening that it's someone of arch-fiends, the witches were improvising the ritual dance around the dazed ghost. The supreme warlock frowned ordinees into doing the kiss of shame. The King's spirit set to improve by the puissant spellcraft of that coven. When his besotted tendance had finished this darksome solemnization of demonolatry Germanareh bid them to summon acolytes for him - "the spirits of those mounts" as he titled them. He cerebrated that while the warlocks were summoning the pucks as they bethought they would revive the departed gothic warriors, which inearthed upon that tumulus too. They'll resurge and minister their almighty sovereign anew.


Phoenixed Spirit of Germanareh:
O well done, I commend your pains,
And every one shall in the gains
And now about the cauldron sing
Like elves and fairies in a ring,
Enchanting all that you put in.

The peccant beasts with eyes of fire rise
They couldn't stay in holes at late cold night
The call of freedom screams in brave wargs' hearts
These beasts were born to live and die in fight

Wargs few in number but they're passing strong
Soon they would know what ever they did wrong
Great lord of damned would lead the pack of wolves
To fight in battle under weight of ghouls

The pack of wargs sneaks through the arcane wood
They don't know what waits them at the end
Their gaze fall to the misty bit of land
"Obscurity beckons the wolves into the magic rood"

The lead took the pack through the thicket,
Ominous calm 'rounds bloodthirsty creatures
Erenow they were the servants of the evil,
But now wolves alarmed by smell of demons

Somber willows bowed its blooming sprays,
The growth doesn't put the charming rays
Of nephrite plenilune, who spells in the skies -
Primeval fear penetrates through their hearts

Wargs ran across this magic place of ghouls
The blackthorns shield the entrance with its horned
Limbs, which began to prick the frenzied wolves -
Bloodcurdling howl proclaims the wood of throned

The King arose by the arrival of the foes
From this enchanted-weird sod
Uncertainty why some wolves gan to fawn -
Goth squeezed in the hand his succinite sword

But all at once the leader of the wargs
Was throwing to attack on the frigging prince
Wistful death awaited him upon the edge of blade
The rite of genuflexion commenced in dole slade

"Wolves, I prithee to bring me" - said the king
"We'd be thy eyes" - answered beasts in iniquitous
Oath, swore in loyalty and kissed the sparkle ring
This observance was so august, grand and tremendous

Germanareh's dominance!

"Our dan, my pack shall howl with your voice,
And we shall paunch and lacerate thy moonlit foes!"

Their new despiteful potentate was the great villain
He wants to march with the wargs into war
But the bridle presseth the wolves so sore
Their souls embittered, bewitched for evermore!

For evermore!

Lo, the majestical phantasmic horde is scudding furtively in the passless wildwood enveloped by calefying silvern moonlight, which permeates far and wide and scathes the newborn lurid flowers of fern so as the ferny seeds scatter into the gossamer hands of warriors, they embalm themselves by the pulp of seeds and their horrifying vision dissolves in the phosphoric vapour-perfumed night air. These darksome warriors are the ghostly retinue of Germanareh The Reborn Gothic King. They are all ready to serve and obey their dark lord, they don't remember their past life, their human names which their beloved mothers have given them, they love and know only their grandest king now. He is their faith, motherland, blood and uncontrollable will.
Full many of warriors vestured in the opalescent hauberk as if tissued from the myriads of lunar webs, its glister is brighter than the Sun and dazzles the morbid glance. Ancient golden swords, spears and maces are ready to mangle, stab and grind the abject deathling people. This fell revenge of Goths is causeless, it is only duty. The spirits haven't got thoughts, either they execute someone's design or inanely exist. But now they crave to kill, excruciate the bodies by hands, reave the eyes and crunch the guts for the lifeful blood to fill the ground; and they sensate that their powers guarded by the daemons of Hel.
And so this host gallops astride the snow-white bewitched wolves under the chieftaincy of bloodthirsting iron-hearted ghost in the impenetrable night.


'TIS THE GHOSTLY RETINUE!

King walketh through the night wood far away from damned ghost home
To the bottom of the high hills to the meeting with the dark Lord
Silent night for the romantic but ghoul's soul is hardest gravestone
Full of hate to all the people soul hath folded in the rage cold

It's twelve o'clock and no one soul strolleth through this baleful place
But suddenly king heard the noise and saw the shadow on the glade
It hath moved forward to the well and ghost began to follow shade
And hand of (phantasmal) king have gleamed by fearful blade

But shadow turned and spirit saw the beauteous girl like morning dawn
The sword fell out of phantom's hand and albeit king was Mantus's son
He couldn't even find the words to show his feelings to this girl
And ghost forgave 'bout sacred duty - she'd glanced at him like ancient beauty

"Oh, Isabelle, my ladybird - supernal loveliness Thou wert!"

(Glacial) Venus shineth for the goddess - she's a queen, and she's the sole
She can make the ghoul's heart tremble only she makes time go slowly
Nights are full of dreams and passion Goth will always be Her true guard
Spirit gives to Her the black rose which grows on the hell-bound graveyard

Isabelle's mother is fucking bitch!

She knew all of their meetings so she told to priest about it
Infirm hag who'd ruled her daughter, girl had died and it was her fault
Slave of church - the inquisitor (his name was Morphiy) in one morning hath decided
Witch and this lass is the one face and Her mind hath veiled the grave cold


Whereupon, after the last vesper bell Morphiy with ecclesial guard ambuscaded in the elder timbered bastide of Isabelle's mother. Nearly the morning-tide gladsome Isabelle got back home suspecting nothing. No explaining, the guards roughly seized Her and marched to frowzy rat-swarmed prison. She was endungeoning there only two moons and wondering about the causa of the arrest.


In court:
The Venerable Inquisitor with bias: "Tell me, what thou art in sooth"
Isabelle drowned in tears: "I am the sinless girl and I believe in God"
The Inquisitor with mockery: "The holy court trows that ye clean too"
Isabelle with illusory foreboding of escape: "O aye, my soul filled with love in all"
The Holy Court: "Nay, thy love is blasphemy and it would fall

"BEND YOUR KNEES, MY PRECIOUS SLAVE!"

Thine immortal soul to the sulphurous hell
Mephitic blaze of Gehenna awaiteth thee!
Sacred court of tellurian clergy couldn't help
For salvation of the relentless death's wings"

Isabelle: "My lief, I wouldn't forsake thee!"

The Inquisitor with taunt: "Do pray, my daughter!
The sacred ordeal would purify thee from sacrilegious designs
Redeem thy sins, embrace thy death and ye'll ensky
Thou'lt vivify at throne of God, Elysium is nigh!"

"Elysium is nigh!"

Concluding speech of the judge:
"I conjure thee by bitter tears shed by Our God and Saviour Jesus Christ upon the cross for the world's salvation and by scalding tears shed by the Virgin, Mother of God upon His wounds in the eve, by tears shed by the saints and those chosen by God, whose eyes don't weep anymore by His will, prove thy innocence by shedding tears, but an thou is guilty, 'tis beyond thy powers. In the Name of Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Amen"


(Isabelle's fainted away)

The cries of maddened Isabelle on the way to the sacrificial stake:
"I am the witch!
Rape me, burn me, slay!!!"

She's gone to the block (Her Calvary) but not like a hero
Her wit aspireth to betrothed, ere faggot she is shriven
At the time Germanareh slumbered in this own crypt
But laments of Isabelle aroused him from his abysmal sleep

He sleeps in his abysmal crypt!

He rose from the veil of woe and hasteneth to beloved
Meanwhile the dale was deafened by a shriek of virtuous sacrifice -
(it had rebellowed in Goth's heart)
The King saw only dancing in flames Her jacinth hair and
The smouldering torso of the most beautiful girl all over the world�

�All over the world!!!

Every fullmoon blood begins to run through sinews of the greatest king of Goths
He wakes up angry going spread the death around for the famous glory of his own God
Great malice lighteth bloody eyes, the frightful pain will scream insight
He'll right through time revenge be sweet, his bones have crushed but soul can't die

His time has come he'll shed the blood of thousands slain by his succinite brand

From the cemetery of silence, from the cemetery of death
King will ride to cruel future he has found a living path
No one angel takes a risk to show his face before the king
Even Gorgon's pale before him, he's afraid his magic ring

The King withdraws the wargs from their subterranean graves,
He harnesseth the chariot and summoneth the ghouls
But spirit of the death whispereth him that they couldn't raise
The dead Goth decide to resort to the secrecies of blooms

And then suddenly�

Saliva of the Great Wolf-leader
Waters the mould of cemetery's tombs
Corpses dwell by this nature of fear
And coming from their loved riven wombs

In the center of the graveyard servants of demons are gathering
The king-ghost organized the significant council
Recall of avenge mournfully sounding on his lifeless lips
He tempteth corses by the fresh human blood,
After that the king stood the forces on their bony knees
And makes them pray for almighty Phoebe, the goddess of moon and flood

"And the countenance of the luna smiles back!"

Elimer, the founder of Gruth was sworn enemy of Goths
And the king on his deathbed takes an oath to destroy the walls
Of the settlement of the own enemy's despicable posterity
And later the centuries he'll exhaust the mission of his destiny

Germanareh screams in darkness:
"My succinite sword shall slaughter thee,
Thy cattle, christian village & tribe
And certainly thy damned seed"

"If you found the reign of darkness,
You will find a sentry lee!"

Hitherto unbloodied umbrae of gothic warriors arose the swords above their heads and hailed:

"Vivat Rex!"

And glorious King's throwing up his hand crowned by firmament's stars
Only his formidable aspect inspireth the awe in souls of arch
And sepulchral obscurity filleth the hearts

Germanareh leads his troops of ghouls in the name of dark
Great warriors expires in the nocturnal sky its blood-curdling howl,
Rotting roots of ancient trees begin to moaning under dreadful army's march
And endless forest covered by odour of death in the bloodshot Devil's bowl

Wicked spirits stand at the edge of the forest
Their caddish glance lowered on the dell
The neighbourhood reddened by flames of hearth
In the next instant the horde from Hell
Darting off to the village and
Their "holy" path was deified by argent-gleamy moon
A succinite sword glares in the King's hand
The ghouls fell from welkin i' th' hazing gloom

Their attack was unexpected, people couldn't hide in dwellings
So men have to fight for freedom, for their lives against the Evil
Ghosts have burned so many houses that the murk have turned to bright light
Fearful thunder have announced the beginning of the Great Fight
Bloody rivers flew from high hills irrigating soil of graveyard
All the soldiers fought in battle for the fame of Germanareh
They will sacrifice their bodies 'cause they serve to Devil's main guard
He's the chosen one of spirits and he knows he'll be their monarch

Hundred men have died in moment tho' they fought in rage and courage
Women, children and the elders run to church for the salvation
They believe in their Ransomer which hath always helped in troubles
Ghosts have charred the shrine with people, - there came a suffocation

The antiquity of the precious cathedral's walls begin to decay
Under the yoke of unbearable Death's shout
And thrusts by spirits' swords, but the Holy Ghost can't betray
The christians of Gruth and their souls to be proud

Ghouls have stormed the church all night
Women have defended children
Earth felt beams of divine light
Felon schemes of ghouls have crumbled

Took away the corses underneath the bed of graveyard
They began to feast glorifying their valour


(Gothic tales of Schwarswald preserves this appalling night unblemished: expression of demons' eyes, their armour and sudden evaporation with first rays of the dawn).

Germanareh narrateth to Isabelle's spirit the story of His life, when She has come to Him for ever. Her spirit has set off to the world of her favourite king after the burning on sacrificial bonfire, - mayhap Love has connected these two, so different, hearts: devilly dark-fathomed serpent and light morning windflaw, washing the wings of seraphim. Isabelle and Germanareh stride in a wood having embraced, and pearl flowers grow from under Her steps, as though the sky is clarified on an instant from Her delightful, already unearthly, sight, but a Shadow, which has hung above the king, still darkens the surrounding world�


Melodies Of Splintered Hearts
"I've lived with you in thy last days
I saw thy death, I felt the pain
But I'm immortal, I'm a slave
I found my way in splendid grave
I'm lord of earth, I'm god of sword
I am the master of the world
I was a tsar, I was a khan
I won all wars that I began

My history is very long
I've lived through ages but I am still alone

Well I'll lead thee through the time
Across the dismal world of mine
I hear the sound of daemonic bell
'Tis time to tell thee fabled tale

"I'll live with you forevermore
Though you are only dreamy ghost
My heart is full of crystal love
My soul is ever lost!"

But hark 'tis sound of the bell
And time hath come to tell the tale
And thou wilt grasp my eon life
Let 't wouldn't show thee as the lie"

"Thy hand in mine and I am calm
For many moonless centuries�
Our love betrayed by many people
And on my grave eternal woe
Our souls fly to heaven steeple
Where starry whirlpool steal us into flow!"

Rueful History Of Mine
The year 351 (three hundred fifty one) was time when I begun to rule
My father Agiulf the Brave hath conquered many eastern tribes
He's sacrificed so many men (torn the threads of lives) unto the ball of astral wool
That people called him "awful beast with gory fire in the eyes"
Our writer Ghor described for the descendants his anabases
I was the worthy son of him so I began to conquer East
Ten years I have attacked the thorps, crushed the walls and burned the cities
I had no pity to the dogs who lived in lands which grew by Mist

My life had changed when Sar & Ammiy they were the great Slavonic czars
Together with their own councillors had showed to me their cowardice
They didn't want to militate against my envoys of the night
The Slavs fain ransomed two score bullions and e'en the princely sib
Whilst mine courageous warriors amassed to barbarous fight

Then-a-days the sere and yellow leaf
Came to me and I wrought myself in
The unable nonagenarian, but my avarice
Fordid the Goths and our nation turned thin

I interred my audacity and swollen unreason
The strength forsook me everlastingly
My ardour was sweeter than hurtle of weapon
And the licentious lust overpowered me

I wished to possess the heart of Slavonic princess
But I don't conceive the wight power of Aryan sons
Pending was the bridal night I descried that 't is meretrix -
My child wife wasn't vestal and my sword efforced her soul, jinx

Her brothers heard about my
Irremissible direful villainy
Their glorious and dauntless arm
Had scuttled us to th' four winds

"Their bestowal for peace was our merited death!"

I all stricken and tatters of my people
Went to plod under the weight of hurts
Towards the west
En route I deceased beshrewing the Slavs;
My bone rest
Upon that wooded embreastment, it laves
In piercing rains (many perpetual centuries),
But my martial and rebellious spirit not knoweth
The soothing restï

Hearings 'bout the devil's coming spend as faster as the sunlight
It hath reached the ancient village near the city of Avilles
There has lived the aged friar who has almost lost his eyesight
But he not dement his reason and the power for his years

He was praying at the icon of God in the monastery
Hung on shoulder the bag with the Gospel, and modestly
Took the verge and went toward macabre Nebelforst
That towers ruefully in the heart of Black Forest

He made the unconspicuous grey tabernacle
On the rivage of silvan warbling brooklet�
Francis bode there peacefully (two days and one night),
Just berrying and gazing as birds and bees flit

Francis was ware, and every crackle
As the prick of the profane morglay
He was afraid the temptation of soul
But not that his flesh would be slain

Walking one day in the forest and banished the drear fancies
Francis suddenly was startled - He discerned a spectral silhouette
Which forthright vanished amid the trunks of the gleamy trees,
Seemed that in the sullen wood (was performing) a magical frondage's minuet

He stood unto the stool thereat the menorah, ignified the flames
The old monk settled his mind and set to exalt the prayer to the saints
The reason was sereneed and he plunged into the deep sleep's waves

Barely he felt formication - He heard the horissonant voice
As Tartarean trump it tanged, and the blood curdled in veins
"Thou art outlander!" - it said - O it was the atrocious noise
Francis tried to gin to pray but he leaned to the hithermost teil

"Let wit ye that my soul had embrewed with blood of thousands"
"My soul is so old and I hope that "Jhesu's sword" have found you,
All-father's clemency ain't fineless and your soul will be (as sure as fate)
haunted by hellhounds"

"Let thy flesh and blood be devoured by terrene cerastes
Dost ye want to enhalo thy caitiff soul?
Thy omnipotent deity isn't hearkeneth thy orisons and pleas!"
"Nay, I mere the meek theopathic thrall!"

"Oh lawks, empower me this even!
Behold, I apostrophize to you
Avaunt, the varletry of Devil!
Erebus in this wield I've viewed"


Francis, with name of God in mouth, aspersed the air, which broke and ostended the bloodcurdling sight - armoured "demons" were squirming and yowling; King Germanareh's standing hardily afore, wincing at fury.


"Well, you quasi have my army
But now my great suzerain citeth me
Don't think that your god is mightier him"

"SIX LUCEAT LUX!"

In the same flash of time all is perished�

"My faith won despite that my word was despisable,
Oh God, why, his thersitical orations were so damnable
That I couldn't listen them, my heart was cowered by awe
The evil was permeating into my forworn reason more

Dei gratia I have prevailed this horrendous fiend!"

Awakening of Newborn Light
Francis took his belongings, left the loaf's crumbs for squirrels, sained himself and went out.

Next morrow he saw an auroral dawn
And his martyred soul began to moan
(That many slain people wouldn't see it)
Yes, blackened evil took their souls
But I believe that Love is law in our world
(And beauty of this planet shall not wilt)

He knocked in the soil
At the marge of the wood
The blest timbered cross
Which put out the roots�

And we'll return into the soil!


After several years the marvelous oak grown there, its vast branches shielded the grassy path to the fragrant pine forest. Every man may rest in the shade of this magnificent tree. If you stare intently to the bottom of the trunk, you may decipher a small cross, etched in the bark by one's ungraspable design, and nothing can abolish it, nor the time, men or natural elements.

Already three hundred years peace and tranquility are reigning there. No animated being is frightened of ancient nighted horror, but the legend lives on the mouth of local inhabitants.