The Lion of Hills

For armies that meet at the battlefield,

See their banners sail in the north wind,

Hear their horses and trumpets sounds,

Feel the pounding of hoofs and feet,

Smell the fear and expectations of the day at hand,

And taste the slight chill in the air.

Lords that have brought their armies from all around,

Their banners bring honor and knowledge in their wake,

For these are the lords of men,

These are the rulers and expanders,

Fathers, brothers, sons, soldiers, warriors, lords and kings,

These are men that have come to fight and die.

The banners that have risen,

The great lord of the north,

Forthwine of Stammermeld,

The golden lord whose army is above that of a thousand,

Like screeching eagles his cavalry charges,

With the flash of steel and glint of bronze,

His weapons flash like that of razor sharp talons,

His men roar with one voice, 

Horses pound the ground so that the very earth shakes

The green snake of the mountainside cliffs,

The earthmovers, 

The axe wielders,

Their lord is Dath of Harthdane,

He brings three thousand,

Many fear these giants among men,

Few can stand to their joyous hum,

Their armor is thick and weapons broad,

Dath himself wields an axe so great that any that see it are often reminded of an oaken trunk,

The Orange Fox of the Night Sky,

Wendel of Scothalmore is their lord,

Though their number is only a few hundred,

They are archers of keenest sight and longest reach,

Their bows are protected by swift light cavalry,

The ground will shake with their fallen enemies littered with arrows,

The tend to have an odd tune, 

As they whistle with every arrow they release.

The Mighty Blue Dragon,

This is the banner of King Royce of Hampshire,

His is a mighty force, 

Some ten thousand,

These are men that sing their war cries,

Like a ripple in a lake,

It can be heard in a moving wave,

Calvary, Footsoldiers, Archers, Giants, 

All have gathered to combat the Lion of the Hills.

The Lion of the Hills,

This is a lord that has stood against King Royce,

With only a few hundred at his command,

No horses,

No giants,

Few bows,

Pikes and sword,

That was their weaponry,

These were simple men of poor land,

But they believed that their lord was a man that no other could best,

Not even a king,

Their trust in him was whole,

They needed no song,

They needed only to listen to the song he sang.

The march to the hills was like hearing the many choirs of men,

The choirs set their path and arrayed themselves to fight,

Why you might ask were so many were fighting so few,

There were tactics with small forces,

But the lion of the hills drove them back time and time again,

With so many arrayed against him,

Who knew if he could do it again.

Korth was the Lion of the Hills,

His heart was of one beat with his home,

His voice was one of mystical power that not even the wisest could describe,

As such his song was loud and proud,

The very air and wind seemed terrified at his power,

His song was long and unwavering,

Few that heard his lion roar ever saw their home again,

Such was his strength.

Korth stood in front of his army,

Though their numbers were not as large as the host in front of them,

They stood their ground and waited,

The hills echoed to silence as they absorbed the choirs voices,

Not a single decibel made its mark on faltering the few hundred gathered,

The whistles that flew disappeared soon after blown,

The mighty deep hum,

Turned to a mewling whisper as it tried to penetrate the rolling hills,

Oh how the cries of men tried to frighten the few that had gathered,

The cries became hoarse, 

And nothing more was heard on the rolling hills.

A quiet set in,

Not a soul dared to move,

Not a bow to twang,

Not an axe to thump,

Not a spear shaken,

Or hoofbeats heard,

No approaching feet,

No clunk of armor,

All stood in the quiet land of the rolling hills.

A song was heard after all fell silent,

A song that came through clear as crystal,

A song was heard like the crashing of waves of rising tide,

Quiet at first,

But it gained strength and power,

An inflow of voices,

These were the voices of the few hundred,

The gathered few,

They were the precursor of the Lion.

They sung and sung,

No voice went hoarse,

Nor did crack,

These were voices that rose up and down the hills, 

The voices rose and fell,

Though the Lion had not begun his song,

The host was already deeply afraid,

Though they did not know why.

Then as the singing choir began to quiet down,

One voice started and could be heard better than the rest,

Loud it began and ear-splitting it became,

Foot soldiers and calvary,

Soldiers and lords all grabbed at their ears,

All sought to dampen the loud noise,

The sweet song, 

For though the words hurt them,

They could not help but want to hear more,

Their ears ran red,

The singular voice was heard in the head of every man of the host,

And every lord begged to hear more,

Even as their blood mixed with the gray matter pouring from their heads,

Such a song that was as beautiful as it was deadly,

Such is the power of the Lion.

The Lion of the hills,

The Lord of the hills.