Sands of Nehekhara - A Tomb Kings Song | Warhammer Fantasy

Описание: #warhammer #warhammerfantasy #warhammertheoldworld #tombkings #warhammer3 #totalwarwarhammer3 #warhammermusic #aimusic

Lyrics:

Lo, beneath yon scorching sun that scours the arid sky,
A desolation vast, where no living thing doth ply.
The winds doth howl 'cross barren waste, a symphony of dread,
For here lieth Nehekhara—the cursed realm of the dead.
Entombed beneath the dunes of time, the kings eternal sleep,
Their vengeance bound in gilded tombs, where silent legions keep.

Behold the ancient days, ere death's cruel visage came,
When Nehekhara stood adorned in Ptra’s blessed flame.
Its cities wrought of marble white, its temples pierced the skies,
And mortals strode as gods on earth, their power did arise.
With spearmen stout and archers true, their phalanxes stood fast,
And chariots swift, like desert gales, their conquests unsurpassed.
Yet pride did swell in royal hearts, and death they sought to chain,
To wrest eternity from dust, and everlasting reign.

O sands of Nehekhara, where the sun’s gaze cannot warm,
Where the winds do whisper curses, and shadows take their form.
O sands of Nehekhara, land of sorrow, where the silent legions tread,
Awake to the wrath of kings long gone—the unyielding, restless dead.

Settra, the Lion of Khemri, the God-King crowned with flame,
With iron will did forge the realm and carve an endless name.
No borders bound his burning might, no conquest satisfied,
Yet mortal flesh betrayed his throne, though he tried, though he tried...
The priesthood heeded Settra’s call and delved in sorcery black,
To cheat the march of time’s cruel hand, to bring their monarch back.
But ‘twas Nagash, the foul betrayer, whose necromantic art,
Unleashed the plague that withered life and tore the soul apart.

O sands of Nehekhara, where the sun’s gaze cannot warm,
Where the winds do whisper curses, and shadows take their form.
O sands of Nehekhara, land of sorrow, where the silent legions tread,
Awake to the wrath of kings long gone—the unyielding, restless dead.

Lo, the day of doom did dawn when Nehekhara fell,
Its verdant lands to dust returned, its glories turned to hell.
The Mortuary Cult's proud dream—a paradise divine,
Was twisted into mockery, a curse through space and time.
The Tomb Kings woke in sepulchers, their flesh but leathern bone,
Their golden afterlife usurp’d, to endless vengeance flown.
Settra rose once more, Imperishable, with wrathful, hollow eyes,
His legions march’d ’neath riven banners, their purpose bound in lies.

O sands of Nehekhara, where the sun’s gaze cannot warm,
Where the winds do whisper curses, and shadows take their form.
O sands of Nehekhara, land of sorrow, where the silent legions tread,
Awake to the wrath of kings long gone—the unyielding, restless dead.

Behold the hosts of death arise, their banners streaming fell,
With hollow sockets glimmering, they march from dusty hell.
The Ushabti stride, as gods of stone, their might unmatched by man,
And sepulchral Stalkers burrow deep, to rend all mortal plan.
The Screaming Skull Catapults roar, their dread a mortal bane,
Whilst sands do choke with arrowed flight, none life’s spark retain.
The Hierotitan, sage of yore, intoneth chants of doom,
And Necrosphinx with claws of wrath doth drag all to the tomb.

O sands of Nehekhara, where the sun’s gaze cannot warm,
Where the winds do whisper curses, and shadows take their form.
O sands of Nehekhara, land of sorrow, where the silent legions tread,
Awake to the wrath of kings long gone—the unyielding, restless dead.

Ye who trespass Nehekhara, take heed these warnings dire,
For tombs shall yawn and sands give birth to hosts of ancient ire.
Their vengeance knows no respite, their wrath doth never tire,
The chariots of Settra reap with wheels edged like fire.
No mortal man may stand against these undying desert lords,
Their curses cling like timeless chains, their justice wrought by swords.
Bow down, O kingdoms of the world, 'fore endless is their might,
For the Tomb Kings march eternal still, 'neath the pale moon’s light.

O sands of Nehekhara, where the sun’s gaze cannot warm,
Where the winds do whisper curses, and shadows take their form.
O sands of Nehekhara, land of sorrow, where the silent legions tread,
Awake to the wrath of kings long gone—the unyielding, restless dead.

Thus do the dunes bear witness to the wrath that time doth mask,
An empire cursed to rule the dust, to fulfill their vengeful task.
The Land of the Dead is eternal, its glory both lost and found,
Where the Tomb Kings rise to war again, and their wrath doth shake the ground.