The beats have rung beneath the stone,

shaping caverns around his throne.

bright red fire, the forge was lit,

screams the iron, on every hit.

For centuries after his fall,

Sealed in darkness of his hall.

Four thousand years beneath the ground,

No light of sun, no earthly sound,

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Except the one, that rings so loud,

Sound of hammers, that always pound.

beating iron, in rhythm of chant,

As Ur'glunir return from hunt.

The weapons forged in every hall,

from cursed black steel, The Valkrulnal.

The Nameless one his army made,

For everyone, a shield and blade,

And the armor, to fit the form,

Of his cursed folk, the Gorugolm.

He wakes again, as long foretold,

From Nal'Gorah, his blackened hold.