The Ballad of the Heroic Three

[muckefuck]

Our heroes came from near and far
From Wolfshead and the Hills
To seek the wealth of Khundrukar
And swell their list of kills
They marchèd under sky and star
Across the braes and rills
Together plumbèd delvings deep
To rouse the beasts from snoring sleep

An archer without fear, but bold,
Severe, and sure of shot
She has no need to plead nor scold
Her arrows hit the spot
Her visage, pleasant to behold,
Which not a flaw doth blot
Remaineth dusky and serene
As fiends are mown down in the green.

A grim-faced man of Orckish line
Belovèd best by Kord
As smart and strong as seven kine,
More quick in deed and word
A man who men dare not malign
Though wielding singing sword
Doth swing a great and grievous glaive
The bane of reaver, wraith, and knave

A stranger born in Hills of Kron
To him the Fates are blind
For They were all asleep or gone
When Blues destroy'd his kind
He douseth flame, the fire begone!
With nought but might of mind
The steady stare is most unnervin'
From this magician known as Durwin

They fought their way through scores of rooms
From sun into abyss
Past fetid ranks of huge mushrooms
In each a fatal kiss
A dozen dark-dwarves met their dooms
From strikes that never miss
But nothing horrified them more
Than what the Kitchen held in store!

Sirinah, lady wielding bow
Was first to step inside
And feel the blows from lignous foe
Come raining on her hide
They batter'd her now to, now fro
Aloud with pain she cried!
And so she summon'd Korgrim Orc
Who could not pass on heroes' work

He struck into the cursèd dark
His sword did seem to fly
Despite the dark, it met its mark--
A pot fell out the sky!
Now Durwin shew'd his battle spark
A carving three hands high
Awoke to life and walkèd in
To slay its wickèd wooden kin

Sirinah reachèd under cloak,
Withdrew a flask of oil
And flung it-splat!-upon the oak
That Glaive was pois'd to spoil
She touchèd to it torch, then smoke
And flames began to roil
They set the swordsman Orc alight
And, valourously, he took flight

Poor Stumpy tried to fight alone
Against his rivals two
He took a blow that laid him prone-
Another ran him through
His master frowned, his forehead shone,
To bruiser turn'd his view
The fire consum'd it, toe to head-
The evil table now lay dead

One foe remain'd to vex the three
The slyest of the gang
It soar'd aloft, alive and free
And joyously it sang
Our bravest could not bear its glee
And lungèd for the tang
Adroitly seizing slipp'ry haft,
She drove it fore and held it aft

It broke not, bent, and pushed her back
When struck against the wall
The Orc upheav'd them like a pack
Into the torchlit hall
The foil flew free! He dealt a whack
As from Moràdin's maul-
The kitchen knife, it hit the floor
And lay in shards, a threat no more

Our heroes three regarded piles
Of ashes, iron scrap
Beyond them, crates, corroded tiles-
Assorted worthless crap
And one was heard to say meanwhiles
Bereft, they left the trap:
"For fighting dragons we are fit
But spare us all domestic kit!