Tat
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Death RattleMay the blood of your enemies never dry upon your blade.
My brother had said that to me when we parted in that long forgotten Heathens Glade.
We have been fighting the Wolven for ten days and my troops are exhausted and bled.
Sporadic messages have gotten through and I fear my brother may be dead.
We have not seen our King since he told us to go and fight.
It seems long ago that cold, cold night.
Ah but there is glory to be had here in Burnstone fields.
We shall have glory or we shall be carried home upon our shields.
Wolven! They are but men in wolf skin who fight only in day.
And the barbarians leave their dead where they lay.
Exhaustion has found me and it is but an hour ‘til light.
Still I sit in my command tent in fear and acceptance and write.
I have accepted that no reinforcements are coming to our call.
And that we will die one and all.
I hear murmurs from the men now as they rouse from sleep.
The ranks of the Wolven have grown to be what looks to be a hundred deep.
I have no horse to ride so I can lead my men into our final battle.
I shall walk and may the Wolven fear our sword and shields death rattle.
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