Atop the lonely storm-worn keep,

He drinks a flask of ale.

The weathered skin and graying brow

Tell many a long tale.

As a Watchman he served long fortnights

And a day here and there.

With aquiline eyes he searched for

Threats from far-off Mount Fear

Many a castle raid he’d withstood

Defending his lord’s dale.

Many a maiden he courted

Underneath moons so pale

Now as he watched the rosy dawn,

Danger hung in the air.

The dreaded foe’s encampment had

Grown overnight down there.

By noon, the field would be awash

With men gleaming in maille.

Not much later they would be

As dead as a door nail.

He stood silently on the tower,

And watched the foe with care;

Then lifted his horn to his lips

And gave a trumpet blare.

By twilight, the field was dark,

The grass was red in a blended blood mark.