Medieval Music
The Plague of Crowns

“The Plague of Crowns” explores the horrific effects of pursuing power in the Brood of Angels Series. The disease of kingship and queenship corrupts the minds of both men and women in the Norophim realm. The looming threat of a world war among terrifying dragons, dark elementals, menacing shapeshifters, Grolar beasts, and seething demons, along with dark angels determined to satisfy their desires, pushes the realm further into darkness.

Amidst a tragic power struggle, two factions vie for control: one seeks freedom for all, while the other demands servitude from those not angel-born. Some aspire to claim the title of crowned kings and queens, while others yearn to be gods.

As monarchs grow in power and become more prevalent, noble and peasant folk sing songs to document the rise and fall of each faction in their pursuit of the crown, often referring to it as a disease. This incited the people of the realm to sing songs about the plague of crowns and its destructive path.

Below are the lyrics and a short video of medieval music titled “The Plague of Crowns” from the Brood of Angels Series. This song serves as a cautionary tale about the destructive nature of power. To allow medieval music admirers to embrace the song in the Brood of Angels Universe, Federico Vogliolo was commissioned to sing it in a slow, ominous cadence with a mournful lute and deep drumbeat.

The Plague of Crowns

Once free were the lands, the green and the plain,

But dark was the hour when the lords staked their claim.

With armor, steel, and ravenous eyes,

Kingships spread like a sickness under angelic skies.

Oh, beware the Crown, the fevered thorn,

For it reaps in the mind as fields are shorn.

Its rot runs deep, where the heart should be,

And leaves naught but ruin and misery.

The halls of castles were warm and wide,

But now they are cold where the monarchs stride.

They whisper of fealty, angels, gods, and blood,

While famine and fire leave the people in red mud.

Oh, beware the Crown, the fevered thorn,

For it reaps in the mind as fields are shorn.

Its rot runs deep, where the heart should be,

And leaves naught but ruin and misery.

The throne is a seat of poison and lies,

Where rulers rise as freedom dies.

Their scepters gleam with the light of decay,

As the lands grow sick and the children stray.

One kingdom fell, but another rose,

Each claimed their right in velvet clothes.

But under their rule, the rivers bled,

While the common folk choked and nobles fled.

Oh, beware the Crown, the fevered thorn,

For it reaps in the mind as fields are shorn.

Its rot runs deep, where the heart should be,

And leaves naught but ruin and misery.

So heed well this song, ye sons and ye kin,

Of crowns made of thorns and hearts made of sin.

They call it divine, the right of queens and kings,

But the crowns are plagues, where sorrow clings.

Oh, beware the Crown, the fevered thorn,

Its bite as deadly as a demon’s scorn.

In the end, it brings but melancholy,

For kingdoms built on tyranny.