The Chronicle of His Holy Nick

Songs of the Minstrel

The hooves of the steeds of the rebel

The army marches on to the capital

Forever marching, advancing...

The monotonous thumping, the monochrome footsteps

They still march on

The gunshots of the artillery of the Empire

He who commands the crimson horde,

He who bellowed the winds

As the army of the non believer and the army of the holy nick clashed together

They still march on

The torrent of warfare, the ballistics,

The army of the holy nick

Strong in their minds and flesh

Endured be their morale, charged at the army of the blasphemous

They still marched on.

Missiles flew, ballista descend into the flesh of the enemies

The rebel leader draw out his sword

Avenge your brothers, avenge your comrade he yelled

Let the ground be stained of our enemies blood

So they charged

Gunshots rung

As the great leader of the rebel draw out their sword,

As the second great war once again ignited this epoch with jubilant

As brothers of war draw out their swords and cried for their lost comrade

The Titans crashed upon each other

The sun unrelentingly scorched the battlefield

Bunkers blistering, machines melting, firearms flaming.

A rebel troop has enough of it

Sick of war, armed with a rifle and a bag of vodka

He charged into the enemy font, and get reduced to ash

Emotions soured

Seeing a fallen comrade, entrenched with great passion,

The army of the rebels, with their rifles loaded, their last wishes made

They sang, they drank, they bid each other abbey

And then charge into the enemy line

The crooked truth, the tormenting reality

The strength of the empire is too strong to match

Our puny sticks are no match for their missiles

Outnumber, outcompeted, outbidder

Our moral fall, and begins to retreat

Night has descended

The empire partied, drunk their guards down

While we, the rebels, the teller of truth

Endured within the gruesome night

Many hoped to desert

The rebels drew loaded their cannons, mounted their steeds, and aimed the cannons.

We are the rebels

We shall defy the expected

The camp of the empire shall be raided.

Tonight, we charge

Shots fired

We charged towards are enemy

Great vibrant colors burst from our leader

The empire's forces is swiftly defeated

And surrender be they

Within what once stood a prosperous field

A lush one, a fertile one

Within what once stood a land of great sustenance

Lays the remains of war fought by the none

Lays the remain of their past

There is no celebration, no victory, no hoorays in the crowd

As they watch, the result of war

There is no excitement within the eyes of the crowd

For they are the victims of conflicts

For their leader is dead

The man moaned for their lost ones

They moaned for their lost comrades who dead in the chaos

They moaned for those that gets to share the last shots within their bottle

They moaned for those that got impaled by bullets, so that their lives are saved

And they moan for their leader, sacrificed himself, to save his man

But alas, They cannot get swayed by their tragedy

But alas, They must put away their sorrows their griefs

They returned to their village, their towns, their old homesteads

They have but returned

They have won, but at great costs

Thus concludes the Tale of the blasphemous one, written by non-other than Archer the blasphemous One, who assists within the creation of Nickism. A noble man, who fought with Divine Nick, raising Nickism to a new height. Who is a good friend, a loyal companion. Yet, upon the influence by some unknown forces, and upon discovery of some rather peculiar methods of offense, is swayed to join the dark side, by which shall be referred to as the Pestilence. A worthy man, who sacrificed himself in the mist of a battle to save his comrades. Tis a shame that he is converted to Blasphemous.

- Written by Archer, The Blasphemous One. Edited by Garfield, the Bishop of his Holy Nick (4190)