Khordes | Teen Ink

Khordes

May 11, 2011
By Porkpye GOLD, Waterford, Michigan
Porkpye GOLD, Waterford, Michigan
14 articles 4 photos 1 comment

Favorite Quote:
"Destiny is the word fools use to describe that which they are too weak to change"
Fridriech Niechze


Lo, in years before all years and a day before. When the seas dipped over the greatest edge and over again to somber shored, when the Ebon Black with pierced pins, tailored the skies and the Forsaken Sands of the ends of the Earth, and sheathed the lands in flowing veil. The lands of fire and plains of rich arbor across flooded plains and lands most extreme. All beneath the burning suns and the first pieces of the moon. And so was Khordes, a single beast among many, made to be among men. But whispers snap their ugly teeth and foul the airs with their vile tongued oaths, and secret and lies twister all life of this one Beast among men.


“Khordes is justless, greedy is his belly, seeking fleshy feast. Savage teeth and flying fires, Lo, this terrible Beast” Words of power painted these trickster’s word-pictures. And Khordes was twisted cruelly by their grim and jealous, runeous speech. Forms of terror corrupted the proud one, and soon his jaws of humanities flesh; one, two, one, two he snapped them down, creatures and men alike. Of the cowards us hiding, all things living sought sanction from the wrath of The Greatest Insult’s Victim. The plains cracked beneath forsaken form, the lands of fire spread to the winds, for even the devil’s breath feared Khordes. His hooves lashed levels across all lands and tramples gleaming sky-cities into quivering, trembling pulp. As his horns bruised the skies, the whispers called again, calling for a hero among the masses. Surly Khordes would knock the Earth into the air to shatter on the obsidian floor, so young still in its construction? But none would answer the call of fickle tongues, let alone a quest surely suicidal ends. But one call was heard; that of a child, an infant among mortals, with no strength to fight but set if an innocent heart. The call was carried and a hunting horn of the finest make bellowed across the skies and over the seas. A chorus heralded his arrival, but not a chorus of angels but the song bars of hell! The mighty Lynch had answered the call, his armor wrought of demonskin and the scaly flesh of monsters. His long sword gleamed with mythril-endowed illumination, and his eyes were those of eerie goblins as told by mothers to their youngest children. His was steed, a great predator of old, billowed a presence of regal ferocity, its origins those of a heretic king, cursed forever for his brutality, his new form brought about by the hand of Lynch!


With the potent spikes of his mail, The Butcher of Fiends exploded the Cliffside with Olympic might, hurling the towering stone towards the roof of the world. The stone tumbled through the skies, the lightning cracking along its crags and peaks. The thunderous stone struck its mark, splitting the right horn of the Crimson Fury. Khordes howled and thrashed about, like the leviathan thrashes the waters, but was seized by Lynch and trapped fast! The hunter struck swiftly with the blade of his long-sword, that terrible Sleipner, and its edge did bite deep! Again and again he did strike, the sting of the blade boiling the fury of Khordes till his irate and black rage blotted the sun and he did unleash his inner burning.
Lynch was thrown to the stars, his bones rattled and his mind aching, but he did not fall nor die! NO! The Rider of Righteousness stood and drew deep from his canteen the water of Yggdrasil, the All-Tree. His spirit flashed and burned with an all-encompassing fire of ancient sigils and the final hopes of Man. The Beast born of Jealousy sought his only refuge from this furious nimbus of life, this terrible hand of epic justice: the Gates of Hell. The maw of the demonic realm opened wide to receive him, but the Butcher of Fiends, the Terrible, Unconquerable, Impervious Lynch did snap it shut! And Lo, the beast did give up the ghost, and he did accept the fate born of his wretchedness. The final act of the Crimson Fury’s mortal life was to act as herald of a great and awesome message: The Mighty Lynch Rides, and he shall not be obstructed by Beast, nor Man, nor the Seelie nor Unseelie, till all evil hath been vanquished.

The author's comments:
Language Arts III Epic Poetry submission

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