I feel your roar deeply vibrating in my bones; it pulses in the morning air, rising and falling in low tones of coming battle. The crack of axe on shield jolts the air; infinite boots stomp in unison stirring clouds of thick dust bellowing before your leagues. Your numbers are many; uncountable in the haze of your movements.
I wait; patiently wait for you. The sun rises from your rear; tinted red by blowing dust; rainbows of swirling color dance announcing your approach; my smile reveals my delight of your coming.
We are but a small force; made smaller by your sheer numbers. You don’t see our joy of the coming battle; our happy voices among our ranks are smothered under the clamor of your cries. You will soon learn; dust settled by your soaking blood. We will walk upon your empty shells; silence your shouts, your blood will spoil the ground you pray to master. History is written of your defeat; your slaughter will be complete.
It is time; we walk hand in hand with death; the closes of friends. You will soon walk with us as lovers do a closeness only battle and death makes possible. We will pass on the stories of your deaths proudly into history; men will shake and lower their heads in praise of your endings; die well this day of days; this I pray.
From the Ramblings.