In black attire with a raspy call, guardians of Odin's hall. Onyx wings take to the sky, wisdom's watchers, they fly high.

Born of storm and secret flame; I guard the old, forgotten name. Crowned in fear, I do not die; but my presence scorches the sky. What am I?

I stood before radar, before radio's call, a steadfast guardian through tempest and squall. By flame, by lens, by electric might, I pierced the dark with guiding light. What am I, watching each night?

I start with a greeting, a simple hello. I end with a tale, legends stitched in a row. Tie them together, and you will see, Adventures that keep the past in memory.

Named after a mountain, fictive and grand, in a tongue few speak or understand. They sing of Norse gods, warriors, and flame, Roaring hard tunes that earned them their name.