The Martyr of Glangsdale

Slightly Embellished Tales from the Front Line

The Martyr of Glangsdale

Blood dripped from the broken bell and the soldier lying neath.
The demon thrust his blade at one and used both as its sheath.
All around the battlefield, the men of God did groan.
They realized all too soon that their lives were all on loan.
Opposing forces were on the march toward what they'd claim their lair,
When impassioned melody and strumming quickly filled the air.
The winds of change did blow and that regiment of men
Shrugged off their grievous wounds and roused to their feet again
O'er the crenellations, lilting voice and lute rang out
Those warriors of the Light re-drew their blades and cast off doubt
They rose to fight for honor and strike true in Heaven's name
The songstress poured fourth all her might so they could do the same
For a quarter of a bell, the living moon shifted the tide
But through the twilight sky, an iron javelin did glide
Until it struck the lass went on in rhyme, tempo, and meter
When she fell, she lay there still, 'til Galladel swung low to meet her.