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War drums of our enemy call upon our beating heart.


Slow breaths, swallowing fear, remembering pride.


Knowing why we stand in the midst of deaths looming, falling, swiping scythe.


The smell of blood on frozen earth churned from nameless footfalls of the silent, whom stand in wait.


Muscles tight, eyes focused upon nothing but the rising glance of Sól soon to shed light upon our fallen brethren.


The harsh and rapid beat of their drums cannot sway our calm.


They begin to pick up pace as Sól catches our eyes.


Blinded yet we hear the first spears thrown, the first volley of arrows un-slung.


Yet many are caught by the torso, maiming legs, taking sight of those who have seen their last battle and their first glimpse of Valhalla.


Taking the enemies spear, tearing them from the fallen.


Smelling the blood of our own.


Inhaling the rage, Sól no longer blinds Odin's children.


The war drums lead on, thudding feet fallow, casting back our enemy’s spears a vengiance.


They will need them.


Blade and axe in hand we stride forth no cries of rage pass our lips only the sound of the screaming crows are heard as they wait for us to feed them a feast…

Created: Mar 09, 2014

Tags: prose

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