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.
I wrote this for the September Commuter Challenge, and kept meaning to post it and never getting around to it:
Beneath my hand, the dead will rise and walk. A thousand minions from a thousand graves. They'll neither fear, nor care, nor smile, nor talk. They'll only onwards march in endless waves. They'll pile and crash against the stony walls. Both cunning and device their strikes will lack. And when each weary bulwark finally falls, To mindless march they'll instantly go back. The living they'll ignore, but not avoid — Collide with them until they cannot stand. Of conscience their trampling is devoid. Their feet will smear the blood into the sand. And finally, when all is swept away, I'll rule an ocean empty, flat, and grey.