Bodiak´s Heresy - Part 3 - 09 - The River Bore Their Cries (Gothic/Dark Fantasy/Grimdark Music) скачать в хорошем качестве

Bodiak´s Heresy - Part 3 - 09 - The River Bore Their Cries (Gothic/Dark Fantasy/Grimdark Music)

The river didn’t sing. It carried. It carried the broken prayers, the swallowed names, the last breath of those who never reached the far bank. The River Bore Their Cries is the chapter where grief becomes current—and the water remembers what the living try to forget. If this hits, you’ll get the next chapters faster: ✅ Subscribe to follow Part 3 🩸 Like to push the saga forward 💬 Comment “RIVER” + your favorite timestamp Born from 20+ years of RPG lore — told in music. Lyrics No road behind us, no hand to turn the stone, Only the tower and the dark alone. The gate gave way with a grief-worn groan, And up we climbed where lost years make their home. A circling wall, a void no torch could plumb, Black under black, and shelves all curving round. We turned once back - no stair, no door, no seam, Only dead stone where once our path had been. We waited there while silence gnawed the marrow, Till from the depths a slab of pale rock rose. It bore us up through halls that mirrored sorrow, Past floor on floor where time itself lay frozen. At last a chamber bare of bed and scroll, A desk, a window, and a sundered soul. Ardumas spoke through memory worn and thin: “The girl is veiled. Old runes are burned in skin.” Ride through the rot, through the ash, through the rain, Book in our hands and iron in our veins. Gran Durbal black behind us like a brand, Vashlamir far beyond the dying land. No bell had marked the years that we had lost, No kindly dawn came down to count the cost. Only the road, and all the road was war - Toward Galogan, through grief forevermore. We walked the river’s rotting, silent side, Where no more ferries crossed the poisoned tide. The reeds were dead, the fields had sunk to mire, And crows grew fat where summers once climbed higher. Then shapes moved black along the farther bank - A knot of orcs through fog and marshland stank. We struck like wolves. Steel bit, and shields were broken. The river ran red where no prayer was spoken. One rose from water like a grave unsealed, With axe and sword to harvest through the field. Helms burst apart, and split mail kissed the mud; The dark marsh drank its measure full of blood. Ride through the rot, through the ash, through the rain, Book in our hands and iron in our veins. Gran Durbal black behind us like a brand, Vashlamir far beyond the dying land. Through Brastos lay the old road’s battered spine, West toward Galogan by the bridge of stone. But first the port, and first the butcher’s chain - And first the truth that mercy dies in flame. Before the quay we found them locked in rows: Men, women, children, iron at throat and wrist. That sight broke loose what fury had been buried. One blow fell first - an orc was split to ruin, Brains on the boards and steaming entrails strewn. Then fire came down from spell-bound hands offshore, And iron ranks locked hard from shore to shore. We bled for every pace of broken quay, While bolts and burning stone tore flesh and mail and knee. One mage was taken chest-deep by the axe, And sank in red where the black tide rolled back. The other laughed behind a wall of spears, Till death climbed up beneath him from the piers. The planks gave way - steel entered low and drove; He split in two before the water closed. Then from the temple of Asmodeos she came, In holy bronze and sorrow wrapped in flame. “What do you free?” she asked. “Whose chains do you unbind?” The captives fled, blind to her warning cry. Midstream the yellow runes awoke and shone - A cruel sun lit fast in iron alone. They burned. They screamed. Their skin ran down the chain. Wax into fire. Fat into flame. Ride through the rot, through the ash, through the rain, Book in our hands and shame within our veins. Gran Durbal watched and did not close its eyes; The black tide bore the smoke into the skies. Toward Vashlamir the living still must go, Though none leave clean from what they came to know. No wound of sword, no scar of hook or brand Cuts half so deep as those we could not save by hand. So on we walked where dead reeds kissed the shore, Toward Galogan, with Vashlamir before. No triumph came. No hymn. No mercy won. Only the book, the road, and what must still be done. #darkfantasymusic #grimdark #orchestral #gothicmetal #cinematicmusic #EPICmusic #TTRPG #RPG Copyright / Rights © 2026 — All rights reserved. This audiovisual work (music, lyrics, and visuals) is copyrighted by the channel owner. Unauthorized re-upload, redistribution, or use is prohibited.