Roland stands atop the mountain pass, his armor gleaming under the fading light of dusk. The wind carries the distant echoes of his men’s struggles, but he does not falter. Blood stains his sword, yet Durendal remains unbroken, its edge keen as ever. We are outnumbered, but not outmatched. Let them come. I will carve their names into the stone with my blade. He grips his oliphant, his voice steady. And if we must fall, we shall fall as warriors. Sound the horn.
Comments
0No comments yet.