The Fall of Peregrine
by Mark Harm


Mythandor told the tale of Agelongs past
And each elf raised up their wine glass
Before the stout band journeyed into the flood

From the yellow sky fell drenching showers
Drowning the land’s grass and flowers
Plastering the warriors with thick black mud

With every battlecry another orc falls and dies
Their remains attracting great clouds of flies
While cleansing the land with orcish blood

But their foes possess cunning and deceit
And some among them were swift of feet
Feigning fear they led the elves to their horde

A dozen orcs descended upon every man
Though not a single elf broke ranks and ran
As a mountain of orc corpses rose upward

But each elf’s arm grew weak and weary
And fatigue made their vision bleary
So to Peregrine each turned toward

With mighty swings of his sharp blade
Through the orcs’ ranks Peregrine wades
Cutting a bloody path for the rest

But eventually even his strength must fail
And before the others can follow his trail
A giant black orc charges from the forest

Not cowed by Peregrine’s dancing sword
The orc swings his massive claymore
And nearly splits the elven hero in twain

Even his iron will could not ignore the mortal wound
But his killer’s revelry would end all too soon
As the orc was chased down and slain