A werewolf, more a monster than a man,
A shade who tries to hide a shadowed past,
A gorgon, cursed to frighten all she can,
A dryad, far from home and fading fast.
Four monsters met on distant, misty moors;
Were promised, by a king with crown of bones
They'd each receive what each one most adores,
If they could just retrieve three sacred stones.
An offer took, by team beset by need;
A trip through peril, onto sacred ground;
A final fight, with foe they ought to heed.
A lethal blow!
Prize won, they turn around,
Return and earn gifts fit to save their souls —
Then realise why the doomsday thunder rolls.
Jenkins Rising 