| Through a dark and desolate valley he walks
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| Pale, flickering fires light the way
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| Along an ice cold river lies his path
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| The sky is of darkest grey
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| A cold wind pierce through his bones
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| And the sharp rocks cut his feet
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| His clothes and skin are ripped by thorns
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| His eyes appear to bleed"
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| The land is dead and dry
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| The water is poisonous
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| Unknown creatures howling to the sky
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| Blood chilling and ravenous
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| The air is thick and dense
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| A smell of rotting flesh
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| Every breath is like one thousand knives
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| Cutting through his chest
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| Black birds of prey circle the sky
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| He hears the shadows moan
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| He sees pale faces pass him by
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| But he walkds this path alone
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| Darkness fills his heart with chilling fear
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| A nameless fear he cannot quell
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| How did he ever end up here?
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| This place where death seems to dwell
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| He repeats the question in his weary mind
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| The riddle gives him no rest
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| Yet he knows the answer deep inside
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| He’s been touched by the chill of death
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| Enchating voices urge him on
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| Though he wants to turn around
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| They sing to him with soothing words
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| A chilling, frightening sound
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| A cold blue ligh shimmer ahead
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| Where a mountain reaches for the sky
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| Nidafjell, mountain of the dead
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| Terrifying it’s might
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| He approach the gates
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| His heart is cold
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| He understands all to well
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| She awaits him
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| The truth unfolds
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| He’s been sent to Nifelhel |