“Halting his stallion for a brief second, taking a deep breath of cold air, he hesitates for a moment while his feathered friends fly ahead. As the frozen wind tears at his face, he is reminded of his origin, that he is of flesh and blood and not of this world. He, a young man, chosen by destiny. Putting his faith in magic and that subtle thing known as fate. He is depending on an immovable trust in an old sword, a stallion given birth to by the wind and the spells of a woodwoman. Not even the cry of the Ravens, urging him on, can take his mind off what lies ahead of him. Feeling smart next to these mountains, so gigantic they unite with the sky, he somehow finds the spirit to continue. Having come this far, already well into the valley of death, it makes little sense in returning.
And thus he follows The Ravens…”
Steadily on jagged wings
Feather black against the burning sky
Spread your wings and ride the wind
Gaze down on me with blackest eyes.
Fly my ravens, fly ahead.
Over the mountains and endless sky
Fly my ravens, fly ahead
Over the mountains over my head.
Let the wind carry you up high.
Now you are reading: The Ravens – Bathory