There once was a land,
Jormundir.
The land where men,
Became gods.
A land set amidst the mountains,
With many a creek around.
The birds would sing,
To welcome the morn,
In this kingdom drowned.
The sun would shine,
And the people would rouse,
In this now shambled town.
The people , they of iron will,
And hearts of gilded metal.
And their king, mighty Golgath ,
He of the ruby crown.
They together did prosper,
A town as prosperous as can be.
Where wine flowed without care,
And all the people were happy.
Yet fate is fickle,
And so are the gods,
And an invasion they faced.
The darkness seeked,
The light inside.
For Jormundir, housed the flame.
The flame of hope,
Extinguisher of dark.
Bane of the dead,
And savior of the stark.
This very flame,
Stood in the center square,
Shining, and lighting the sky.
Mighty Golgath,
He of the ruby crown,
Protector of the flame and master of it too,
Raised his hammer,
The mighty Thorund,
And challenged the hordes before him.
And all who met his hammer fell,
For Thorund was forged in the flame.
And it seemed that he would prevail,
But the gods would not have it so.
The light had burned far too long.
The world, prospered too much.
Balance, to restore they seeked.
And so, the gods decided.
To help the darkness.
For to them it would be good amusement.
Lady Frida, the most fickle of them all,
Appeared on the battlefield.
Golgath, mindful of respect and tradition.
Bowed before her, as is custom.
Such was his piousness,
That even in battle, he gave pause,
To the worthless gods who betrayed him.
To the ones who never cared.
And lady Frida, her form so fair,
Held Golgath's head in her arms,
And in a motion so fluid,
Wrenched it, tearing it from his body.
And as the decapitated trunk fell,
His golden blood, stained the earth,
And darkened everything around it.
The master of the flame was dead.
And so the darkness invaded the city,
And the flame was extinguished.
The people wailed, screaming for their gods,
As they were consumed whole.
Children ripped to pieces and swallowed.
Women violated to death and beyond.
Men tortured till they were husks.
And ripped and served as stew.
And the gods gave no heed.
For why should they?
The mortals were but roaches filthy,
Pets for them to play.
And so ends the tale of the nameless city.
The city that all forgot.
But not I, no never.
For I have witnessed it all.
