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.
Metatron HQ 