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Hello poeoples,
I have returned after a while, and well, thought that I should put some more of my writing out here. So, without further ado, here ti is.
Enjoy
I feel the burning rage, I feel the hate,
The fury swells within my breast,
I feel mightier than Gods, master of fate,
I can feel my heart beat in my chest.
I draw my blade that shimmers like crystal,
I raise my shield of painted, carven wood,
And the sound of drums calls me to battle,
And the rage engulfs me, compels me to spill blood.
As the lines clash, time seems to slow down,
The rage me makes as fluid as a water,
Trooper and champion by me are blown
To the next life, and I will not falter.
I am consumed as if by a raging inferno,
My blade sings in joy, its edges crimson,
My features are grim, stern is my brow,
As I slice my blade through flesh and bone.
And I see him, the enemy warlord,
Clad in sable armour carved in runes,
I shout his name, I raise my sword,
And bid him prepare to meet his gods soon.
Our weapons clash in sparks of fire,
Star metal blade versus hell-forged axe,
The armies part to see this fight so dire,
Both forces each move ten paces back.
Within a ring of steely hearted warriors,
The battle shall be decided, one on one,
Each champion impervious to wars grim horrors,
On might of arms alone will the fight be won!
The blades clash once more, swift as the wind,
Parries and ripostes exchanged in a heartbeat,
The trap is set, my ruse quickly planned,
I turn my back as if to retreat.
He is taken aback by my sudden movement,
In his own bloodlust he pursues me close,
In a second, I have to his gods him sent,
To his helm-clad head have I delivered a Death blow.
The body stands still for an eternal second,
As the enemy realises that their chief is dead,
But they also see that all of hope of victory is gone,
And for nought have they fought and bled.
My foes knelt before me in token of submission,
I heard the sounds of their ragged breath,
“For you, no mercy, only grim contrition,
And its final reward, a cold and inglorious death!”
So I spoke, and I have regretted it since then,
For down the path of the berserker I stride,
I show no mercy, and in turn receive none,
It is only time till down the road of the dead I glide.
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"This is the hour of the Shire-folk, when they arise from their quiet fields to shake the towers and counsels of the Great. Who of all the Wise could have foreseen it? Or, if they are wise, why should they expect to know it, until the hour has struck? "
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