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The Song of
Ending
A crash of thundering hooves shatters the
silence of the forest as a mighty figure gallops along an otherwise
peaceful trail. Branches and dust fly in the wake of the passing
warrior only to later settle and leave no memory of his passage. Like a
brooding, impenetrable storm of blind power, the rider seeks only his
destination, his eyes only waiting to be caught upon some unwary
victim. Seeing an unlucky group of Trolls, he reins his mount, taunting
his prey with mocking eyes. As one they fall upon him, and for long all
that can be heard is the swing of steel and the dull thud of bodies
falling. Each bloodthirsty cry of a Troll is greeted by the whistling
arc of deadly steel, followed by the crunch of bone and cries of pain.
The overconfidence of the monsters turns to fear as, one by one, each
falls to the fury of the rider's killing song. The trolls cut down to
the last, the surrounding eaves of the forest drink again the brooding
silence and all seems unchanged, but for the bodies of the slain.
Strangely stilled, the warrior stands for
a great while listening. The cool quiet evening seems a canvas, marked
only by the occasional sound of some forest dweller nearby. Even more,
the rider thinks, the world itself seems a humming, changing picture
... as if it were being sung by some unknown force ... yes the song of
the world was all about him ... each moment a movement in some cosmic
refrain. If he listened harder perhaps, he might be able to hear what
his own song was. The earth begins to sing its story to him ... he sees
the mightiest mountain worn down to naught as time sings its story ...
the fragile life of creatures whose lives are a mere drop in the ocean
of time's song. Yet that life grows again and again from the flower of
destruction. From the darkness, light issues forth ... as ethereal and
fleeting as the void. Like a gaping maw, the darkness rushes to devour
it as it passes, only to be pushed back as it returns ... the light
becoming as empty and meaningless as the darkness before it. For just a
second the vision seems frozen, and the song stops for what seems an
eternity. So this is death, thinks the rider, to exist without change
... to forever remain unsung. Not an instrument am I, he realizes, but
part of the song itself, my spirit guided by some eternal voice that
replays its theme upon my soul. My life is the song of ending, the
destruction from which life must spring ... for life unending is merely
death disguised ... for it becomes as empty and meaningless as the
void. Death itself is not unending, for otherwise there would be no
life ... and then death would have nothing to define it.
Looking down at the slain, Grimtooth smiles. Almost playfully, he
swings his axe wide, listening to its deadly whistle ... aye the voice
that sings him runs strong within his bones. With a grunt he maneuvers
his steed westwards and dashes off again ... the trolls a silent
testament to the fierce and strange music of the world.
Black-Handed Grimtooth
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