Death at Eastfleet

[tcs_tonsils_ 2829]

“Death at Eastfleet”

[!] A portrait of an adult Borris Iver Kortrevich

 

12th of Msitza and Dargund, 419 E.S.

 

So let loose thine arrows, send them hurtling toward the enemy. 

With a single word, thousands of bolts blot out the sun as they streak across the sky.

And with a single thunderous clap, the wrenched return with their own volley. 

Death appears to take the brave, status or none, death seeks to unify. 

 

With a single word, thousands of bolts blot out the sun as they streak across the sky.

They strike flesh and stone, cracking and splintering everything they touch.

Death appears to take the brave, status or none, death seeks to unify. 

Impaled upon the shafts of wood and iron, the pale body’s blush.

 

They strike flesh and stone, cracking and splintering everything they touch.

“Run forth, thine brethren.” I heard thee scream out, sword raised with wide grin.

Impaled upon the shafts of wood and iron, the pale body’s blush.

“Run forth. Kill the Bastards.” The man cried out, then crumpled in the wind.

 

“Run forth, thine brethren.” I heard thee scream out, sword raised with wide grin.

And so we did. Man, orc, and dwarf charged forth with such enraged vigor. 

“Run forth. Kill the Bastards.” The man cried out, then crumpled in the wind.

Push through the nerve, release thine adrenaline, and maintain thine rigor.

 

Man, orc, and dwarf charged forth with such enraged vigor. 

Blessed iron met with heathen steel, as both forces collided midway.

Push through the nerve, release thine adrenaline, and maintain thine rigor.

Slashing and bashing and cutting and slicing, fighting lasts through the day.

 

Blessed iron met with heathen steel, as both forces collided midway.

My clothes are drenched with my sweat, my armor with the blood of others.

Slashing and bashing and cutting and slicing, fighting lasts through the day.

Fighting lasts through the day, till each foe is struck down by Godan’s ushers.

 

My clothes are drenched with my sweat, my armor with the blood of others.

I dare not ponder if it is that of mine friend or adversary.

Each foe is struck down by Godan’s ushers.

Forever from this moment shall they remain sedentary.

 

I dare not ponder if it is that of mine friend or adversary.

I hear the calls of those who lay battered upon the dirt and blood. 

Forever from this moment shall they remain sedentary.

Their pitiful cries ring out in the thin silence, a broken dam to flood.

 

I hear the calls of our brethren who lay battered upon the dirt and blood. 

Doomed souls, longing for the release of death, something to relieve their strife.

Their pitiful cries ring out in the thin silence, a broken dam to flood.

Godan strike us down lest we forget their sacrifice. 

 

Signed,

Borris Iver Kortrevich