by Ivan, 10/6/200
Tis orc season again!
The orcs are pillaging,
Here they come!
Flee with yer children,
Flee with yer mum.
Not one or two,
or three or four,
They come in a horde,
of maybe fifty or more.
They be ugly as hell,
And a dull mossy green,
They’ve a horrible smell,
and also muscled and lean.
They come across the hills,
The ground shakes and churns,
Fiery chaos ensues,
As towns and villages burn.
Who could save them?
Who could achieve this deed?
Perhaps a noble knight,
one with a mighty steed.
But none could be found,
No matter where they looked,
But then arose a young boy,
They though their goose was cooked.
He was armed with a sharp stick,
and a simple cloth vest,
He was a level 1 peasant,
yet different from the rest.
For he was a player character!
Brave mighty and tall,
In a few years that is,
but for now e’s just small.
He stirred the peasant rabble,
to defend his tiny town,
For no matter how small it was,
No orc was gonna burn it down.
They fought for great glory,
They were quite an impressive sight,
They fought like in the stories,
They battled through the night.
The day was finally won,
abd the orcs were all slain,
The boy hero stood weary,
Great honor did he gain.
The King gave him a new sword,
Magical +2 its hilt said,
But he kept his trusty sharp stick,
Its honored place was justly paid.
So there sits his stick,
on a stand by the mantle,
For if the horde should return,
He’ll once again test his mettle.
5