Hwær nucwom hors ond hererinc? Hwær cwom herehorn blawende?
Hwær cwom helm hereserce ond fæger feax flowende?
Hwær cwom hand on hearpestrengum ond read gled glowende?
Hwær cwom wyrta ond wæstm ond lang corn growelde?
Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
The night was dark and the wind was calm. Embers flew up to the sky, acting like stars to the thick clouds that made up the sky. Men and women lay strewn on the ground, the red puddles growing beneath them. Horses were on the ground in the stable floor, the wood and thatch roof still burning above their lifeless forms. Orcs and Easterlings prowled the streets, finishing off those still alive or taking the stronger ones as slaves, standing atop the archer towers blowing their vile horns into the night in a harsh tone of victory.
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Those still alive fled. Women and children shrieking in fear, crying babes wrapped up in bundles against their chests as they ran up the dirt path leading to the safety of the hills. Back and forth the lines rode the fierce though fearful. Sperewigends, folawigends, maesterwigends and their aethelwigend upon tired steeds, the dull metal covering them glinting with blood of man and orc. Swords were notched, shields were broken. Yellow hair turned red from bloodspill, and fierce eyes that once burnt brightly now quavering with fear.
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
The mead-hall doors were hacked from their hinges. Scops were on the floor, some breathing their last breath though none sang their last songs. Lute necks were snapped, used as weapons in a last attempt at survival. No merriment was in the air in the usual merry place, orcs already having taken it as their own to rest in with the largest orc sitting upon the Thane’s throne: the heads of his conquest at his feet. The fire burnt brightly, spreading in the lowest parts of the town where the dark tide of the evil host first hit, smoke billowing into the air as if a drake had visited.
Where is the spring and the harvest and the corn growing?
Not only did the town suffer damages. The grass around the town, once long and green and lush though now trampled down -- flattened from thousands of armoured boots and orkish feet. Where wheat would grow plentiful the ground was charred black with sheep and cattle have eaten littered amongst the wreckage. When the rains came it washed away the worse, though still ugly scars rested upon the landscape that many once called theirs, but now where the orcs call home.
