|
Wrote this a while back, adds color so here it is:
In the ancient times when our Isle was new, not one stone building was found.
Just the clans of our ancestor's tread the lands, stalked by monsters abound.
The seven clans would grow strong and war, and tear each other asunder.
Till the age of giants reared its head with footsteps of horrible thunder.
By the winter nights the clans would hide, in the cold and freezing dark,
For the great beasts would walk the night, and would see the smallest spark.
It would be from seven to five, and four again, before the clans unite.
To fight the hordes and push them back, off the edge into the night.
But the battles were hard and wearing still, against such a deadly foe.
Till the clans were trapped in the bay of Bore with nowhere they could go.
Harold the First, the strongest of them all, the uniter of the clans.
Stoud ahead to meet the battle, his family's sword tight in his hands.
The strongest of the giants strode forth, catching this man's eye.
With a burning stare and the grimist smile, intent to watch him die.
The two began to circle close, weapons posed for a deadly blow.
While the clans looked on in fear, for how the battle would surely go.
With the clash of steel ringing aloud shining by the fire's light,
And the thundering thuds of the giant's club in the cold air of night,
The two exchanged their glancing blows as they circled round and round,
Till the sound of shattering steel tore out, with Harold upon the ground.
In horror all looked, upon the sword, a huge crack from tip to hilt.
And the ground below harold himself was red, from where his blood was spilt.
The giants eyes flashed delight, as he raised his club once more.
To crush the man who until just now, had brought them such fearce war.
The death blow was swung with deadly speed, and the sound of steel wrung,
The club was blocked by tip of sword, unshattered in dawn's first sun
Though so cracked and brittle as ice the sword had saved it's owner true,
And found a home in the giant's belly so stunned, now fallen in the morning dew.
The injured warrior stood once more, drawing the broken blade our forth,
As the clans charged with their own blades drawn, chasing the giants North.
The cries of giants echoed in the hills from the start of morning light,
and they did not cease till the last was slain at the fall of evening night.
Though Harold would die from his wounds with his kinsmen at his side
He smiled the while through the pain and wiled that no longer they would hide.
Within a great hill the place was dug with more than ample room
A great hall in itself it would be the known as the Warriors' Tomb.
Though since those days our kingdom grew and little of the clans are known
We know hill where they would rest the bones of those who fought for our home
Little of what they made still stands from the age their homes were built
But we still hold safe one relic, of a blade split from tip to hilt
If in the darkest days it seems that our kingdom is shattered again in two
We have suffered worse and always held strong and again shall hold out too
For if a sword can save a fledgeling people though split from end to end
We can survive the trials, fire or woe and find the time to mend. |
09-28-2003, 07:09 AM
Relic story: The Split Sword
MY POEM
Linear Mode
