I was starting out writing a haiku, but it evolved into an epic.
Every glorious fortress will fall;
No matter how broad, no matter how tall.
No dwarf can be invincible.
No fortress impenetrable.
Goblins hunting down the dwarves;
Ogres knocking down the doors;
Dragons roasting all in sight;
Kobolds theiving left and right.
Military is in shambles,
Farmers hiding under tables,
Children running to the gremlins,
Drunkards sleeping through the din.
Look at that! It's an engraver.
His last breath is spent on labor.
He's carving up a masterpiece;
He decorates his resting place.
See his chisel work up and down,
The masterpiece is being sewn:
The dwarf drops dead, his final work:
An image of a sock and dirk.
Many years have now passed by.
A lone adventurer tired lies.
He drops his eyes to sleep the night;
Quite aware of that ancient blight.
When come morn the rough dwarf wakes.
He bows his head for Armok's sake.
Entrance to the hold he finds;
In the depths where no sun shines.
The cold rock floor, the humid air,
The dwarf finds rest upon a chair.
All around the dead lie still.
Women, livestock, infants were killed.
He searches the old stores for food,
But finds naught save smears of blood.
Nothing has been dwelling here.
But death scent lingers everywhere.
The lone dwarf gathers his supplies:
He packs his sword, packs his knives.
Takes a step toward the light.
Blinks once to adjust his sight.
Alas! As he departs from the ruin,
A terrible stench surrounds him.
The smell of death! The reek of fear.
Undead creatures tarry near!
He runs fast as feet can carry;
Through the wood into the prairie.
Out from the brush monsters come,
The true icons of hopeless doom.
To Armok the brave dwarf prays.
Is today his last of days?
He pauses to think of his life:
Think of his child, of his wife.
Then the dwarf charges the mass.
Shatters the creatures' bones like glass.
Fo'ard and aft his strong sword swings,
Severing limbs and heads and wings.
The field stained with crimson,
The dwarf's blade hums a deadly song.
The battlefield is covered with corpses.
Relentlessly the dwarf sword slashes.
On they come! The endless swarm.
But this dwarf avoids all harm.
Swiftly he steps, so agile is he:
Marvelled the elves, from up in the trees!
But soon they were pale and aghast;
The warrior - he fell at last.
On his corpse the monsters feed.
Out the dwarf's stolen life bleeds.
But lo, he left a daughter behind.
Later his rotting corpse did she find.
Tears clouded her judgement and eyes,
Horrendous were her screaming cries.
She swore to the spirits. Nay, to Armok!
The undead armies would find their graves yet.
So up the sword and the shield she took:
Her brow was quite mad, her fate was set.
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Topic: Dwarven Haiku? Not For The Weak Hearted! (Read 57568 times)