Carrion Crows over Camlan [album] 2011
I wanted the Wolves of Avalon to have a completely separate sound and soul, a Pagan manifestation with no relation to the Meads of Asphodel, except myself.
With musician, J Marinos, I found the creative force to put my ideas into a musical form, and the band has found its own identity
This album is loosely based on, Bernard Cornwell’s Arthurian warlord chronicles. The trilogy of books embrace the historical Arthur [or what historical elements exist]
The books certainly inspired me to create the lyrical framework for this album.
From this fascinating series, I created my own take on the legend, very much sure footed in Dark Age murk and mist, similar to the movie, Arthur.
The tracks reveal that missing puzzle to British history.
The Wolves of Avalon
A track about the warriors of Britain who stood against the tide of Germanic incursions.
We are the Wolves of Avalon Lost spirits of Albion, kings of slaughter lords of death for blood and pride we are all that’s left. We are Wolves of Avalon our Germanic nightmare has just begun Our mighty race of ancient tribes, we fight to live we fight to survive. We are wolves of Avalon pagan knights of enchanted dreams we boil the cauldron of battle blood to stir a horror yet unseen. From the the womb of Ceridwen and blessings of Gwyn ab Nudd, our time has come to stand or die. Upon our sacred soil We are the Wolves of Avalon Lost spirits of Albion, kings of slaughter lords of death for blood and pride we are all that’s left. We are Wolves of Avalon this is our last farewell like hungry dogs our rabid jaws and send your guts to hell We are Wolves of Avalon clad in iron and steel besmeared with woe from heaps of slain we bring your dying throes
Lost Gods We Call Upon You
The title track says it all. The tribal factions generally had their own local deities, pagan rituals and although Christianity was around in Britain at this time, I choose to align Arthur with the old ways, and not buy into the Christianized Celtic factions of the age.
Taranis arise Camulus arise Cernenos arise Barinthus arise Lost Gods awake here us, we call on you Lost Gods awake here us, we call on you Branwen arise belinano annoan agorn adas Belatucadros arise Arawen aris Govannon arise Morrigan arise Teutates arise Wayland arise Lost Gods Arise here us, we call on you Lost Gods Arise here us, we call on you We stand as one, Against the tide, of Irish raiders, and pictland tribes, We stand as one , With pagan pride against the Sais, and Germanic Gods, we stand as one, to spit on the cross to hunt the Jute and angle scum we stand as one, against the Christ, the plague of Rome a cancer among us Aarrrhhh lost gods we call on you x4 lost Gods we call on you x 4 the gods will die only when we forget, in times gathering dust our ancient remains shall call out and say, in you alone we trust Gods we call on you once again, to rid our land of our foe, to remind us once more of our blood, our might of our ancestors long ago
British Tribes Unite
A rallying call for the final struggles against the Saxon Hordes. Futile, and yet extremely poignant to a nationalistic stance. We have been accused [like the Meads have], of a far right leaning, yet my historical embrace of a cultural belonging is sometimes dragged into this modern age where in reality, this cultural belonging does not seem to exist.
Trinovantes Demetae, Caledonii Brigante Catuvellauni Gododdin Durotrige Ordovices Iceni Cenimagni Selgovae Cornovii Dumnonii , Segontiaci Regini , Cantiaci, come together tribes of Albion x4 Trinovantes Demetae, Caledonii Brigante Catuvellauni Gododdin Silures wotadini Iceni come together tribes of Albion x4 aaahhhh soft Together we are one, one tribe, one tongue, our blood is our honour our honour our sacred land and we shall die here to a man for here we stand, here we fight. Raise the mead horns in the great hall of the gods here we fight here we stand and we will die with sword in hand here we fight here we stand and we will die with sword in hand here we fight here we stand and will die with sword in hand here we fight here we stand and will die with sword in hand
The War song of Beli Mawr
Beli Mawr was an ancestor figure in Middle Welsh literature, and the track utilises this mythical figure as a very ancient British figurehead
Death comes calling the crows will circle above our sacred stones Death comes calling flesh shall rip and wounds shall burst upon the sacred soil Death comes calling gushing bowels shall spill upon our sacred oaks Death comes calling severed limbs shall spay blood upon our sacred groves In a War hear our song of Beli Mawr In War hear our song of Beli Mawr In a War hear our song of Beli Mawr In War hear our song of Beli Mawr Death comes calling the crows will circle above our sacred stones Death comes calling flesh shall rip and wounds shall burst upon the sacred soil Death comes calling gushing bowels shall spill upon our sacred oaks Death comes calling severed limbs shall spay blood upon our sacred groves In War hear our song of Beli Mawr In War hear our song of Beli Mawr In War hear our song of Beli Mawr In War hear our song of Beli Mawr that is a nation without a people? what is a people without a nation/ you come to take our freedom, out gods, our pride we fight to live, we fight for our children, our homes, hear our song of Beli Mawr, our battle cries shall echo throughout time for we are the last of the British with swords unsheathed, our shield walls steadfast and we will fight to the last, to our very last breath and we shall die sword in hand, for all paths, they all lead to death
The Siege of Badon-hill
The Battle of Badon was a battle thought to have occurred between Britons and Anglo-Saxons in the late 5th or early 6th century. It was credited as a major victory for the Britons, stopping the encroachment of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms for a period.
In the nights black heart and storms of winter. We ride to Badbury rings, to fight or die with blood etched on our blades and the pain of "spears" under dragons billowing wings to fight or die The ancient tribes are as one The Ancient Tribes are as one The ancient tribes are as one The Ancient Tribes are as one With the horn bearers call and the sound of ripping mail the gods give us the joy to kill and kill again this vile sweet stench of the battles clodded earth a dreadful warring gale, of reeking rusted glaive of mongrel Saxon dead, and bloody faces stained of broken shield walls and broken mighty oaths hewed battle shields and shivered ashen spears and the horror of disgrace that cowards must embrace is there’s for evermore, a curse of their fallen race. The ancient tribes are as one The Ancient Tribes are as one The ancient tribes are as one The Ancient Tribes are as one The Ancient Tribes are as one The Ancient Tribes are as one The Ancient Tribes are as one our age has just begun now let it be done, the will of the gods be done.
The Last Druid
This final age of Celtic Britain would have also seen the last of the Druids disappear from the land that would become a Christianized England.
I gaze at the stars by the great dying oak, to the realm of the gods I am no longer lost in the gathering of night on raven wings I glide to the three far worlds of land sea and sky. the ancient white owl and voices from the wells of sun, moon and stars The ergot- trance -tells in soothless disdain, in the cauldron of Awen adder stones awaken and dream weaver thread In the chamber of the grave I must soon take my leave I am the last of my kind and who would believe of the great lord Arthur the dark Avalon wolf who fought and was slain enchanted to the end Bewitched by the lake of dusk coated raven, by the grove of tall oaks and viper shaman to ride on the black swan, to the tor of Avalon to rest above all men great dragon of Albion.
Carrion Crows over Camlan
The earliest known reference to the battle of Camlann is an entry in the 10th-century Annales Cambriae, recording the battle in the year 537. It is a battle that some say Arthur fell and put an end to Celtic resistance against the Saxon hordes.
Before the twilight, the black birds sings & the black crows peck the eyes of kings In the battles tumult, I can hear the wailing banshee Pendragons son is fallen on ground foul with death Under winters empty sky, upon mouldering ash and bone Great heroes collide on mist silhouetted fens The baying of war horns, an eerie ode to sable garb of woe Where cloven heads fall like seeds upon the dirt. Carrion Crows over Camlan, Carrion Crows over Camlan Carrion Crows over Camlan, Carrion Crows over Camlan With sundered limbs and silent screams That rest upon this dreadful empurpled plain We ghosts of fallen oaks And graven faces of the slain Warriors heave and groan. Gaping mouths spitting blood Mail clad wolves in the mist Shimmering blades of blood-glazed steel Killing under the cold moons glare Gone are the British kings, all swallowed by the Germanic holocaust pyres. Lord Arthur is slain. Great warriors laid upon countless biers, Culhwch Peredur, Galath, Cadwr Olwen, Pwyll, Manawyddan, Arawn, Gwydion, Bedwyr, Garanwyn, Gwalchmai, Trystan, Cadog, Mofran, Llywarch, Medraut , Eliwlod, Druadwas, Bradwen Gwalchmai. Morrigan casts her spell with dark runes cast Her thunderbolts of murder and bleak pale slaughter Dragon and raven standards broken, Tall ashen shafts ruddy with gore War is a shapeless stygian chaos Where gods of Annwn collide Affallach awaits in Avalon The weary sleep of the slain
Britain is Fallen
The title reflects the meaning, of land of British tribes that would soon cease to exist, and the demography of Britain cut into Wales, England, and Scotland.
The bards shall sing of deeds long done of fallen wolves of Avalon the bards shall sing of broken blades great tales of glory never to fade. They shall say of Arthur, and his warrior band to a man they fell at cold Camlan twas long ago these deeds were done Let us never forget what we have become. The bards shall sing when death prevailed. When warriors clad in legionary mail, did face the beast across the sea the horde of death and slavery but British steel and a will to be free for outlaws from hell, together were we all battle scarred we wolves of war free like the raven wild as the boar This land may fall, its enemies may reign but we shall never kneel, we shall never be chained. For this is our British soil, and we shall defend it till the end.
Song of the Graves
A track about the end of an age, the final chapter in a Celtic land, not lost in a dark age murk.
Silence is death in the realm of sleep where worms awaken and slowly creep through twilight shades and broken dreams to guide the slain into another world come Dor-Marth the spirits arise on towers of ash the banshee cries through shadow mist and veils of sorrow to bale fires past and a haunted morrow guide us onwards to the crooked bank where Arthur lies still oh dread Camlan the hounds of Cwn Annwn come now and guide his soul to the other-side Far from the woods of caledon this song of graves shall always be, Far from the woods of caledon this song of graves shall always be, guide us onwards to the crooked bank where Arthur lies still oh dread Camlan the hounds of Cwn Annwn come now and guide his soul to the other-side Silence is death in the realm of sleep where worms awaken and slowly creep through twilight shades and broken dreams to guide the slain into another world come Dor-Marth the spirits arise on towers of ash the banshee cries through shadow mist and veils of sorrow to bale fires past and a haunted morrow magic of yore lost to the grave we drink from the horn of bran galed the grey whetstone of elder horgalen the coat of padarn and ring of eluned great magic of. Yore lost to the earth blade of rhydderch white hilted …........ music of swords blunted and broken enchanted spells words unspoken hear the song of graves tombstones of sword blades six feet under a warrior slain never to walk this earth again. Like an autumn falling blackthorn leaf lost in times becrimsoned grief
Boudicas Last Stand [album] 2014
One of Britain’s most famous women of British history, whose very existence is befogged in the mist of time.
Raped by the Roman occupying forces around, AD 60, in the age of Nero, she raised the tribes of Britain in a bloody rampage. A vast ill disciplined rabble, that when faced with a similar mass of baying woad painted warriors would have been evenly matched and strength and prowess would have won the day. Yet, when facing the foremost war machine on Erath, this uprising could only meet one end.
Famished wolves befogged with blood
A very nationalistic track of ancient warriors fighting for there race. It does not relate to today’s more liberal society. But in these times a racial belonging was paramount to existence.
we are bonded by blood, sons of the soil beneath our feet, a tribal brotherhood of war and we know how to die well. Mighty legions of iron and steel dashed to dust by the battles travail famished wolves befogged with blood our vengeance now, our funeral pyre warrior queen, bursting from hell flaming eyes and war gods wrath to die as one, free from the lash in the dark tumult of slaughter. terror shrieks of bitter dread druids spitting spells, feed the crows on roman flesh ghosts and grinning skulls slayers and slain as one in death in the seething mass of scourging war. dream followers and nightmare givers though murk and mire we ebb and flow as vipers we, in the name of Rome let it be done as famished wolves befogged with blood gore whetted sythe and pilum hail ravenous dogs,slaughtering haze killing blows quelled by groans of fallen champions swords in hand. we die as one, free from the lash in the dark tumult of slaughter. terror shrieks of bitter dread slayers and slain as one in death in the seething mass of scourging war
The Sky Goddess
The lyrics embrace the Icenic War Goddess, Andraste, to whom Boudicca would ahve worshiped.
Golden scythe, Mistletoe. Hallowed Oak, from sacred grove. Mouldering Bones, Ravens Fly. Andraste, Queen of war! Fallen Foe, yonder blaze. Hueless wraiths, Banshee wails Bitter Ash, The Last Samhain. The Age of Nero is upon us! Oh, the White Godess within me dreamless sleep! Oh, the White Godess that is within me. Oh, the White Godess within me dreamless sleep! Oh, the White Godess that is within me. I am the dark of the moon, the cutter of threads and hunger unsoother, I am the one to whom all return, where the blood of battle gluts the throat of death. I am the stag, the wind on the lake, I am the solar priest with dread unwreathed, I am the phantom pale, and the grim embrace of clay.
The Dreadful thirst of Death
Deadliest dread and woe hatred and despair owl, raven and crow blood is everywhere druid isle aflame gods carved in oak holy men are slain iron blood and smoke sky gods weaving sorrow in a Celtic hinterland sacred is the moon clothed in deathly red the forest is our tomb white wizards dead skygods weaving sorrow in a Celtic hinterland the dreadful thirst of death parched we fall the dreadful thirst of death parched we fall lost ancient ones under leaf, log and stone magic cosmic dance never more to roam the dreadful thirst of death parched we fall the dreadful thirst of death parched we fall sky gods weaving sorrow in a Celtic hinterland
Bonded by blood and Sword.
[with Thurios ‘Drudkh/ Astrofales]
A track featuring many of the Celtic deities of the time.
Howl and writhe where many glooms abide die forlorn where guts are opened wide ashen hew theres nowhere left to hide pagan wrath where no one can survive sallow grey on raven wings we ride hellish gore iron and bone collide tombless slain conquer and divide wretched tears Rome we have defied British gods gods of evermore condatis hear the forest roar taranis craving blood and war Avernus above the eagle soars Camulus a feast of guts and gore Bellunos binding oaths we swore cernunnos cometh the dragons claw Andraste on spines we all shall gnaw Bonded by blood we shall die to the last
The Icknield Way is dripping with the juice of our marrow-bones.
The Icknield Way is an ancient trackway in southern and eastern England that goes from Norfolk to Wiltshire. Boudica and her warriors would have used this path.
kill, wasting away kill, daylight blighted kill, harrowing chaos kill, at the stroke of death kill, where time stands still kill, a clash of steel kill, pale as ash kill, to the hallows end kill, gaping mouths kill, slow mutilation kill, strangers dying kill, our lives cut down burn, bleeding cinders burn, rancid flesh burn, red londinium burn, lost ninth legion At the feast of beltain, the dead are cast into the caverns of silence, to become bloodless shades of the past, to roam the pathless depths, until all the world falls dead. kill, devouring flames kill, deaths dominions Kill, crowned with gore kill, skinned alive kill, festering hatred kill, at the end of a rope kill, wolves of avalon kill, sweet bitter end kill, pagan holocaust kill, life ebbs away kill, we fade to nothing kill, this is the end kill, there’s no turning back kill, dark-mist shrouds kill, reek of spite kill, in a ring of stones
Behold the feast of the slaughter gods
slash, cut, steaming blood Behold the feast of the slaughter gods cleave, slash, bleeding flesh Behold the feast of the slaughter gods stab, maim, rabid dogs Behold the feast of the slaughter gods rip, kill, croaking throes Behold the feast of the slaughter gods crack, break, broken horns Behold the feast of the slaughter gods split, crush, dripping gore Behold the feast of the slaughter gods tear, gash, open wounds Behold the feast of the slaughter gods smash, hew, spilling guts Behold the feast of the slaughter gods fire, burn, searing flesh Behold the feast of the slaughter gods scorch, choke, boiling blood Behold the feast of the slaughter gods roast, scald, smoking hair Behold the feast of the slaughter gods rage, gall, charred remains Behold the feast of the slaughter gods I clasp the hand of my warrior queen 'neath a cold and pale sky unearthly winds stir and sigh in this mournful farewell like naked souls at judgement morn lost in deaths night we reap the harvest of bleak despair veiled by radiance bright Can you see the dead in the fleshless mist of winter, the wave-less sorrow smothering the still seas of torment, and death casts the final stone, and the ripples of the dying fade into reeking silence. Tis what war does, to shroud the land with a wrinkling frost that cuts into the hollow guts of the earth and the ripples of the dying fade into reeking silence.
The gorging glut of sodden clay
[with Vargoth [Nokturnal Mortum]
A track about battle and blood. Am I to die a death of shame forlorn in dark miasma to die a death of blood and flame cut down by euthanasia chanting shaman battle cries oaths of vengeful ire druid fiery baleful eyes like soulless pits afire under this, desolate night our blood chilled with fear riding from the nether gloom death is ever near in frenzied battle slayers fall in a hideous sullen dance plunging soulless dogs to hell cut by sword and lance battle queen on burning pyre how grim a life abhorred, her croaking throes fade to dust her dignity restored Grim queen of terrors we summon you, take our queen into forests dim and the gloomy hue of time. shimmering shrouds of pallid clay before my eyes I see frost unsharpened gates of grey where tears are ice and flow no more.
Iceni queen unfurl’d in a tempest of crows
A track about the last moments of Boudica, her world destroyed, and her days numbered.
sorrow stricken writhing in her grave in this world of lies close her weary eyes spitting sorrow from the cup of war in blinding rage with a deadly hate Iceni queen unfurl'd in a tempest of crows deep in the underworld, 'til the world falls dead Iceni queen unfurl'd in a tempest of crows deep in the underworld you never had a chance just dead woman walking my battle queen there's no use crying of what could have been to die un-avenged we all die alone drinking poison Iceni queen unfurl'd in a tempest of crows deep in the underworld, 'til the world falls dead Iceni queen unfurl'd in a tempest of crows deep in the underworld
I walk the moonless fens of a darkling day
I had a short poem that seemed to fit this dreamy musical piece J. Marinos created.
Thrice, ten thousand men lying of cold, of thirst, and hunger dying, in dread pits of idol clay where flesh submits to foul decay, like madmen howling, in dark blood crawling, foemen, strangers, thickly clustering, in drifts of smoke, silently suffering, I follow the dreams that seek the grave as I walk the moonless fens of a darkling day.
Cold as mouldering clay
quenching the Roman hunger the bloated worms are here, to gorge upon our children and the dunghill of our fears. The dreamless sleep of death and frozen hand of Nero in misty trails of blood as never seen before embraced, with deaths disrobing hands our thirsting souls we sacrifice cold as mouldering clay our remains will become shadows of time to drink from sorrows chalice the dregs of malignant hate we walk on broken eagles at the foot of deaths black gates ahead the dark red smoke behind untrodden snow this battle will be fought and no one will ever know.
Across Corpses Grey [album] 2016
A single track about the brutality of late medieval warfare, and more specifically the English War of the Roses. The Battle of Towton was fought during the English Wars of the Roses on 29 March 1461, It is described as “probably the largest and bloodiest battle ever fought on English soil”, though Boudica’s defeat at the Battle of Watling Street is also a contender.
Two swans on a lake of ice, entwined under a rainbows glare.
I am to wonder this broken land. To reach for the stars above, until I become but ash on the sands. Live for what you love and die for what you’re unwilling to live without. For all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these.. It might have been. Under the leering sky, under the crows up high. Through Charnel scented mist. We shadows of the voiceless dead. Eyes of gleaming hate, and winds unfettered roar. Iron clad and drear, until the grey light of morn. Knights and thundering hooves, fall weltering to the ground. Cold, dishelmed and mute and cleaving spears unbound. Fields of corpses grey, where death doth darkly lay. Shivering pallid dread, of tear besprinkled graves. Hollow screams of fear, under misty icy gloom. Into flame stabbed flesh, pale as yonder moon. Knights and thundering hooves, fall weltering to the ground. Cold, dishelmed and mute and cleaving spears unbound. Hither come from yonder lands, men of war and rage. The choking reek of crumbling clod and the stench of holy crusade. Through bleak defiles and sunless clime, lords of death with gore. Priests of sacred holy peace, their gathering cries rebound! We stir the dust of battle, upon the gloomy edges of the earth. To summon the grisly death gods, with lips of lurid blue. To gaze though joyless eyes, upon the shapeless chaos of despair. We call upon the grim monarchs of clay, raise high the horns of murder. Blow hard your death notes to the wind, across blood slaked sands and sanguine fields. The stream of time, swiftly flowing, to bring a torment half-unknowing. Dimly rushing, blindly going. The breath of death silently blowing. Running from the reapers hounds, with grief’s unmeasured flow. Leaping from the blushing ground, to dine on human woe. Laid to rest, on gravel beds. Mid the wrathful fray. Eyeless worms, in hush of sleep. Crawl from flesh decay. Arrows of death unstrung. Of dark winged grief falling. Like hail of bitter biting. Upon the baleful fighting. Beating hearts forever stilled, dashed to dust by the storm of fate, cold as the frost touched leaves of Autumn. Unnumbered tears of the stillborn. Dripping in the nights mist. Awoken from eternity, god created all in seven days. And man was set in paradise, where god had planted a tree from which man would learn how to hate. And the race of men made war in Gods name, with up flashing steel and showers of gore. The priests spoke of peace with hands of guiltless blood. And the world became a monster, and god saw that it was good. The wind is wailing through murk and blood red mist. Swords unyielding and merciless. Corpses wear the glory gleam of god. Fading halo's radiant with clot. Darkly thronged, men of iron clash, like tangled bine stems mangled limbs entwine. Blood oozes from the peace giving sod, like honey sweating though pores of oak. Realms battle rent and tempest driven, sins of war are never forgiven. Dreadfully adorned with murmuring flies. Realms battle rent and tempest driven, sins of war are never forgiven. Battle-grim faces etched in moonlight. Pointing spears, advance in rows, clarions shrilling. Bloody plumes, of a distant foe, fading in the nights cold heart. Sharpen tongued arrows, harrowed with desolation. Swift flung darts falling in a hail of mutilation. The winds of war, clogged with ice and snow. Where shivering mortals cursed, with a witching ire. In the winds of war, clogged with ice and snow. Blades cut through misty pall. Of relentless frost! Spear men bold, with woe brimmed eyes, into swarthy gloom of hues and roar. Unto the sleep of unblessed graves, shivering with disease of war. 'Neath burning sun and icy star, bewildered yelling's of despair. All this hatred, god-begotten in a world beyond repair. Wandering in a trance. Broken tranquillity Lost within suffocation. Desperate Pain! The whirling shadow, of all invisible things. The wilting of flesh, is what war brings. Bodies to rot as feats, to soak in a thirsty soil. Amongst the broken blades, and the gathering of worms. Bewitching is the flesh, of sorrows sable hew. Hideously serine, clay cold with rue. In the heart of everlasting Nothingness and across corpses grey, behold the dreadful majesty, of Death's eyeless face, and silent are crows and all forms of carrion bird, For only the trilling of nightingales can be heard.