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Poems and stories
Reddrum
Member Posts: 41
Please write poems/stories and post them
some of these were wrote by friends.
Battle of Druim Ligen
Druim Ligen, its under attack!
Voices of guards seemed to stack.
Hundreds of Albions warriors outside attacking,
But there was one thing that they were lacking.
They lacked the skill, this was needed indeed,
For heavens sake, some of them couldnt even read.
Druim Ligen, Hibernias most powerful keep,
Upon this place, Albion could not reap.
Rangers lined the keep walls,
Some get hit, and take that final fall.
War cries are heard, as massive Firbolg Heroes dash through the gates.
By my spear, and my strength! This will be your fate!
Hundreds of deaths lay just outside, but alas Hibernia was taking the lead.
Hibernian Elves, and Lurikeen, destroying many with such speed!
The casters stayed behind inside,
If they were released, Albion would surely go for a ride.
Soon enough a howl from the east,
So more of you want to join my feast!
A Firbolg Hero pounded on his shield,
His bloodstained sword had been all over the field.
He charged forward, his sword going straight into the heart of an Avalonian caster,
He went from one victim to the next, faster and faster!
Soon enough he stopped to rest,
Though behind him lay a stealthing pest.
Into his back, two daggers did drive,
His life flashed before his eyes, everything past five.
Down he went, a mess of blue Firbolg blood,
The stealth assassin, running away into the mud.
Now is your time, go, dont let them survive!
Spell casters lined the walls, beside the rangers still alive.
Not a second went by, darkness filled the land,
No one could see, just feel the air turn to sand.
Not a noise was heard, not even a sword piercing skin,
Suddenly, Albions warriors were turning thin.
The darkness crept past all of them, one by one,
Left none standing, all falling down with one stun.
Soon enough, the black void disintegrated,
Firbolgs, and Celts, looking at the ones they hated.
They had all fallen in battle, even Albions Highlanders in plate,
All of them lay there, in deaths final state.
Those would be skeletons; hundreds of skeletons line the field.
The casters slowly walked back into their chamber, none of them even need to be healed.
Druim Ligen, now, was safe again,
Now, you can truly say the sword is mightier than the pen.
Some people say that they don't fear death but when im after them they are scared as HELL!!!!!!
(picture done by Yuen Lee)
Comments
Tale of an Elf
An Elf was he,
Spell casting master of three.
Sun, Moon, and Void were these,
Devastation caused just by his sneeze!
His life was a hard one,
Unlike a Lurikeen, he had no fun.
Wake up every morn',
Wish he wasn't even born.
Trudge through these hardships he did,
Remembering all he had learned as a kid.
"Kill Albions best, leave none standing!"
This is what his father had said while ranting.
Onwards to battle, this Elf did go,
A spell in his mind, ready to throw.
British Armsmen come from the west,
Now was the time for his big test.
Armor shining in the sun,
These Britons surely would not run.
He took his stance, clearing his mind,
Concentrating on his spells, which one would he find?
One deep breath, and light filled the field,
Screams of the British did not seem to yield.
This Elf had completed his test,
"Now is not the time to rest!"
A Firbolg yelled for him, but alas it was too late,
This poor Elf had fallen in combat, what a horrible fate.
The British had taken the keep called Cruachon,
This place the Elf had defended, Albions finest now marchin'.
A Dream Nearly Come True
A shiver went up Uriel's spine as he looked upon the Albion stronghold for the first time. It was an imposing structure, with twenty-foot high walls, an iron portcullis, and dozens of guards patrolling the battlements; but that was not what made Uriel excited and nervous as he looked at it. It was within this fort, called Mediolanum by the Britons, which lay the fulfillment of Uriel's greatest dream. For a decade and more he had searched for the Giants' Sword, wielded by Beowulf when he slew the mother of Grendel. The relic had been lost for nearly a century and retrieving it would bring him a great deal of wealth, fame, and, more important, respect; something the thief got very little of from his barbaric kinsmen. Uriel was a thief, and a good one- perhaps the best in all of Midgard- but the warriors of the tribes respected only the physical strength with which they clove through an opponent's armor whilst hardly slowing. True, they took advantage of his skills from time to time, for an assassination or a theft, but when the job was done they paid and quickly forgot him. He hoped that after this night the skalds would be telling his tale for millennia.
Uriel stepped further into his boots; magical, they would not make a sound on even the stone floor of this keep; lowered his cowl to further shade his face, wrapped the rope of a grappling hook around his arm, and started slowly down the hill to the wall. Even the weather this night aided his purpose. The night sky was obscured with thick clouds, and only occasionally did he have to stop as the moonlight came down and would have exposed him, had he continued moving. He reached the wall without incident and crouched in the shadows as he waited for two guards to meet above him, exchange the all clear responses, and move on. As soon as they were far enough away that he could barely hear their footsteps, he unwrapped the grappling hook and hurled the head over the edge of the wall. His aim was true, and the iron claws dug into the stone, making a noise that set Uriel's teeth to grating with worry but was nonetheless unheard by the guards. After confirming the hook had caught by jiggling the rope, he clambered up the rope, using the pocked walls for footholds. Seconds were wasted pulling free the hook-it had caught too deeply, perhaps-and then Uriel jumped over to the inside of the wall, making sure to land on his feet so that his boots would muffle the sound. He was inside, but that, he knew, would be the easy part.
He dropped the grappling hook on the ground and pulled out from his bag a short bow and a quiver of needle-nosed arrows specially designed for penetrating the chain mail which was the Briton soldier's standard armor, a club with a weighted head for knocking enemies unconscious, and several full flasks, which he hooked to his belt. Then he stuffed the empty bag into his tunic and pondered his course.
The little he had been able to see from outside the walls had shown him only that there was a separate building in the center of the keep, much taller than the others. Now he could see that the tower was in the middle of a single large courtyard, which took up the entirety of the space inside the outer walls. Unfortunately, he could also see that there would be no entry to the tower from above the first floor; every window was simply an arrow slit, a few inches wide, and certainly not large enough to allow him to pass through. The only entrance, he now knew, was likely the large doorway standing open directly in front of him with a guard standing attentively in front of it. Uriel moved sideways along the wall until he was directly across from the corner of the tower, and then moved forward. Luckily, the guard was looking straight ahead toward where Uriel had been cloaked in shadow moments before, and did not see the dark shape darting across the open space to the foot of the tower. The guard's concentration on that spot proved to be his undoing; readying his club, Uriel moved forward to the door and crept up behind the guard. The sentry was still facing the other way when the club connected with his helmet, making a quiet ring but allowing Uriel to help his unconscious body to the ground soundlessly. Uriel dragged the limp weight inside the door and once again paused to survey his surroundings.
The first level was only a single room with a staircase leading higher and a torch on one of the walls. Realizing he was completely visible to anyone who might pass down the hallway on the second floor, Uriel smothered the torch, plunging the room and the stairs into darkness. He moved slowly up the stairs, so as to be able to hear any approaching guards, until he reached the second floor. This floor was very different from the first; broad hallways extended in all four directions, each looking uniform and featureless. Adding to the problem of not knowing which direction to take was the fact that at the end of each of the halls was a pair of guards in front of a stairway. Acting on instinct alone, Uriel chose the north hall and moved along it until he could go no farther without being seen by the guards. He tore off the corner of his cloak, wrapped it around one of the arrows, and -for he'd hoped he wouldn't have to use this- he opened a flask full of a strange greenish liquid and soaked the piece of cloak with it. Praying that the wizard who had sold him this had not lied, he fired the arrow at the feet of one of the guards and waited. Sure enough, in a few moments both guards were lying asleep on the floor, their soft snores barely audible. Pulling out a knife from his boot, Uriel moved to each guard and slit his throat; he could not take the risk of their snoring getting too loud and bringing someone to wake them.
The next six floors were nearly the same as the second, with the only difference being the number of guards; each floor had one more guard on each door than the last. Uriel laughed at the Britons' focus on order and organization; it always made stealing from them easy. Using the same strategy each time, Uriel's sleeping draught was almost gone, and his cloak hung in tatters, when he reached the ninth floor. As soon as he reached the top of the stairs, Uriel realized that this was the final floor. A long hall, lit with both torches and magical globes, stretched ahead for what seemed an eternity before arriving at a pair of iron-bound wooden doors. Priceless items lined the walls, including mithril weapons and armor, gemstones the size of his fist, magical wands, standards of ancient enemies defeated, and golden statues of previous kings, lords, and heroes. Normally such a vision of wealth would have set Uriel's fingers to twitching before he stole it all, but on this night his thoughts were only on what must be beyond the door. For the first time, he examined the two fighters guarding the door, and almost gave up his quest at that moment.
For the two were paladins. Clad head to toe in full plate mail, his arrows would simply bounce off, and their helms completely covered their faces, so it was not likely his trick with the sleeping potion would work on them. Obviously his club would not work either, as even if he somehow managed to get the paladins to turn around and sneak up on them, their helms were too thick to knock them unconscious. Despairing, he considered the other potions he had bought from the wizard. One liquid would burst into flame on contact with air, and spread quickly; that one might kill the paladins, but would also bring most of the guards from the lower floors up. Another would create a wall of ice; that could work, except that he would have no way of getting through the ice himself. The last was of lightning, and would release small bolts of energy into the air to strike all metals near it when used. The only problems with that one were that the paladins would likely make a great deal of noise, and that bolts would also strike the iron bindings of the door, perhaps bringing it crashing to the floor. After several moments of deep thought, Uriel came up with a way to use all three to accomplish his goal. Moving quickly, he tied the rest of his cloak around his club. The fire oil he laid beside the club. He threw the ice potion to the ground in front of the paladins, and as they looked on in surprise, they were encased in solid ice. The ice wall went all the way to the door, and partway covered it. Then Uriel threw the lightning potion into the wall of ice. Tendrils of energy snaked out, burned through the ice, and electrocuted the paladins in their armor. As he had hoped, by the time the lightning reached the door, it had been partially nullified by the ice and did little more than blacken the iron. Satisfied thus far, Uriel picked up his club and the fire oil and walked to the ice. Pouring the oil onto his club, Uriel walked forward with his firebrand in front of him, melting the ice until he reached the door.
Here he paused and listened. All was quiet inside, so Uriel tried to push the door open. As he had expected, the door was locked, but that was little trouble for a master thief, and out came his lockpicks. After finding the right one, he turned the lock until he heard the tumbler move, and froze for a few seconds, waiting for the click that would tell him a trap had been sprung. No noise came, however, and so he pushed open the door. The sight in front of him made his whole quest worthwhile.
The room of the sword was small, holding nothing but the sword itself on a tall stand. It was obvious that this was the sword Uriel had searched for most of his life, for it was over seven feet in length, and evinced an aura of great age and power. He searched the air around the sword for hidden wires and the stand itself for any traps, but found none. Reverently, he lifted up the sword upon which all of his dreams rested. Despite its size, the sword of Beowulf was as light as the short swords Uriel usually used, further increasing his awe. Then Uriel took notice once again of his surrounding, and realized that he needed to get out of the fort fast, for he had no way of knowing when the shifts would come and the dead guards would be discovered.
Retreating back the way he came, Uriel reached the first floor without event and was growing ever more confident about his escape. Thus, he was paying very little attention when he walked out the door of the tower. Perhaps, if he had been, he would have heard the Albion swordsman waiting just outside. But he had not, and so it came as a complete surprise to him when he felt the sword slide through his side, and not until he was falling did he remember the single guard he had knocked unconscious and not killed. "I will not be famous or wealthy after all", he thought, as his spirit began its journey to Valhalla, "but at least the disrespect has ended."