The Song of Durin is actually mythology passed down by the Swiss after they retreated into their mountain-halls. Over countless generations the Swiss became Dwarfs, living apart from the world above while the rest of humanity fought WWIII, radically reshaped the world with psychic powers. Some transcended, others pursued genetic immortality and physical perfection; sometimes their experiments failed, producing hideous monstrosities again. Radiation mixed with wild mind-magic to mutate some into a human sub-race small of stature and fast of metabolism. The remainder had long since regressed to neo-feudal societies. A few of the survivors fled across the Atlantic to the U.S., which had remained secure in its isolation. The genetically modified living weapons of the long-forgotten war ran rampant.
READ IT.
The world world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone,
When Durin woke and walked alone.
He named the nameless hills and dells;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Above the shadow of his head.
The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall
Of mighty Kings in Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away:
The world was fair in Durin's Day.
A king he was on carven throne
In many-pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power upon the door.
The light of sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shown forever far and bright.
There hammer on the anvil smote,
There chisel clove, and graver wrote;
There forged was bladed and bound was hilt;
The delver mined the mason built.
There beryl, pearl, and opal pale
And metal wrought like fishes' mail,
Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,
And shining spears were laid in horde.
Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke:
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,
And at the gates the trumpets rang.
The world is grey, the mountains old,
The forge's fire is ashen-cold;
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;
The shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.
But still the sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirrormere;
There lies his crown in water deep,
Till Durin wakes again from sleep.
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Topic: Things that made you go "WTF?" today o_O (Read 14917646 times)