bubbling cauldron, fire light glittering off rusty pauldron,
The goblin's elders, the tribal
leaders, chief and priestess,
Huddled in a meeting, eagerly
Through this darkened meeting, a sly, nervous greeting,
With mage of power, who towered
over, this underground bower.
battle they spoke of, allies soon to be realised,
Through the wizard's spells
they'd be fealised,
And the goblins' war with the
orcs at last unleashed.
by word and by spell, dark groups of Hell,
Ogres and kobolds, by magic
encouraged to be bold,
All in a band enfold, the wizard
lead numbers dread untold.
out on the moor, caught whiff of some spoor,
And crept with stealth, to
take some poor souls health..
He looked like a saddler, dressed
in leather that was no armour.
flesh they would gather, his skin chewed into lather.
a terrible surprise, when he started to rise,
And fire burned like sunrise,
in a ring before their eyes!
After a bit of a jargon, they
went to a wagon,
And then they snored like a
dragon, up on top of the mountains.
are frightening, but not terribly brightening,
So one of them looked at the
writing, scribbled in whitening,
Marked out on a tree, then
his mind was not free.
a gathering, the mage told giants his meaning,
And they smiled at the dreaming,
of glories soon to be thieving.
the orc chieftain, all cunning and gleaming,
The wizard arrived, and with
Told the green-skinned, muscled
and mean one,
Of the goblin tribe, and all
of their bribes.
and grinning, at the foes soon to be grieving,
The chieftain, a prize for
his lies, the mage he was giving.
killed him, and and his treasures he'd skim.
a sorcerer is not so easy dead, and though dreadfully bled,
The chieftain's mind had fled,
and the wizard he helped to a bed.
as a spell of charming, struck whom so ever should harm
Moor it was called, a deadly bog was its floor,
The orcs to the North, the
crept the goblins, against the hills of the Westward,
Only place where their raggedy
army could onward.
their surprise, when in the valley foes did arise,
Ten thousand orc soldiers,
hidden in pits not a day older.
and mayhem, bloodthirsty bedlam, shattered the pass,
At the head of the giant morass.
the cleaving, the goblins were leaving, and the orcs celebrating,
When down the hillside, rolled
a tatty old wagon..
Pottery vases, smashed and
erased, as it all crashed and bashed,
cloud escaping, buzzing wasps the valley encloaking,Screaming
and howling, itching and scratching, the orcs in disarray.
dreadful keening, trolls came a screeching, down the hillsides.,
Bones ripped and crunching, limbs chewed and bleeding,
There was a terrible feeding.
limbs out from dozens of bodies, the trolls were contented
burning logs, to fast to out jog, rolled them into the bog,
Up on the hills, giants hurling great oily barrels, flames
many left still.
Flesh burned and smoking, the
trolls died there choking,
Never again would they rise.
leaping, down hillsides sweeping, giants came a stealing,
Looting dismembered bodies, but then started bleating,
Over golden leavings, and soon
the heavings, and then the reavings,
One by one, giants this world
the end, only four remaining, when before they could wend,
They were stricken dumb, with
limbs quite numb.
And soon there were none...
done job! Your wizard's gob, has made them fight and rob!"
General Gade, of the dwarven army, praised old Silverblade.
"Any chance, you'll do
such a job, on elven glade?"
But Gade was only joking, while
Silverblade, orcish loot was stroking....