Five thousand strong, the army was,
Bedecked in glimmering metal,
Five thousand men of the cold wind north,
Under the banner of a twisted nettle.

Why they ventured, none could say,
Yet still their enmity came,
Across the cold chill of the Ferral mountains,
Across the Cyrodiil plain.

South they strode in thunderous clamour,
Muddy footprints in their wake,
All who challenged fell before them,
No man spared for pity’s sake.

On a steed of pitch darkness their leader came,
Clad in armour of darkest pitch,
His weapon a spiked mace, it’s edges gilded
By the blood craft of a northern witch.

Upon his steed, its red eyes gleaming,
His dark heart pulsed for glory,
Descended from Dremora this man was,
With a desire to make his story.

They marched through the night and through the day,
Led by their fearsome patron,
Seven foot tall with arms of might,
The champion of Mehrunes Dagon.

At last they stopped, this fearsome host,
Their wake only pillaged destruction,
At last they stopped to hear their master,
And his commands of corpulent instruction.

“Host of Oblivion, Troop of Woe,”
Let us find a city ripe for plunder,
A town to crush under our colossal heel,
That we might tear asunder.”

“Upon that hill rests peaceful Kvatch,
A mere bauble of hope and kindness,
Let us crush their church and loot their homes,
Let us condemn all survivors to blindness!”

Upon his cry, his revealed nature,
The host let up a cry,
Summoned was the power of the Deadra,
Shattering the sky.

Thunder, cloud and lashing rain,
Caustic drops of woe,
As though Akatosh wept for the fate of those
Who would fall under sword and bow.

Yet all was not as the demonic horde hoped,
A beacon of defiance stood gleaming,
A knight, born under the sign of the Steed,
Stood where the Wolf banners flew streaming.

The town itself had known of its plight,
The march of the host known for days,
The townsfolk had fled, and all that remained
Were warriors of noble way.

The men of Kvatch had fear in their hearts,
Terror locked in their eyes,
Their wolf-marked mail gave little hope
As they trembled under those skies.

Their hero, their marshal, alone stood firm,
His courage a salve amongst the pale,
A beacon of hope, he knew the days outcome,
And yet honour and right prevailed.

Looking out upon the host,
He saw the dread they brought,
He saw their bows of fire and foulness
Echoes of doom they wrought.

Standing atop the castle walls,
He turned to the defenders.
“Take heart,” he cried, “For while we breathe,
Kvatch shall fall not to these pretenders.”

”Our hearts are pure, our faith secure,
In Akatosh, our prayers are true,
We may well be in Oblivion tonight,
But they’ll be a host of that horde too!”

At his words, the defenders rallied,
Prepared for the fateful hour.
They watched as the terrible beast grew closer,
A beast with intent to devour.

Through the rain, the mud, the clouds,
The terrible assault began,
Flames licked and leapt on burning quiver,
Gates shook with battering ram.

Along the ramparts the defenders braced,
Returning with hails of steel and magic,
Wrecking damage upon the marching host,
Causing carnage wide and tragic.

Upon the battlements the hero yelled,
His commands decisive and wise,
Again the venomous horde approached,
Yet they were unable to take their prize.

“For Kvatch! For the Nine! For the hope of all!”
The defenders voices lifted.
“For Evil! For Oblivion! For our dread lord!”
The assaulter’s cackle drifted.

For three days they fought, those brave heroes,
Those children of the Wolf,
For three days they resisted Oblivion itself,
The destruction that desired to engulf.

Yet as night fell on that third day,
The weariness had taken its toll,
The defenders were exhausted and spent,
Wounds they could no longer dole.

At last the host was on the walls,
Great towers collapsing in mounds of rubble,
The defenders fell back, their clothes bloodstained,
Aware of the danger and trouble.

Dead and the dying lay scattered and broken,
On every street corner and homestead,
Yet still the defenders rallied and defied
The creatures from the land of the dead.

Thrice they came with burning hatred,
Eyes afire with malicious flame.
Thrice they came across the ramparts,
Yet repulsed they were again.

Blood dripped from every edifice,
Every room a battleground hard fought,
The creatures paid for every step in blood,
And still were denied what they sought.

All hope was gone, yet the defence still continued,
The clatter of swords filled the air,
The town was a husk, a burning ruin,
Yet the defenders refused to despair.

And then it was that the hero among them,
Found himself alone left alive.
Each brave defender, each worthy thane,
Had given his life for his hive.

Sword swinging brightly, hair caked in blood,
Armour beaten and broken,
Still the hero of Kvatch made his final stand,
A symbol of his faith, a token.

Death hung in the air as the rain lashed down,
As the horde prepared to engulf him,
Yet still his heart remained true to the Nine,
The hope in his blood had awoken.

Fifteen he slew, his sword flailing wildly,
Yet the hope in his heart could not muster
Enough power to halt the creatures he fought,
There was nothing to sate their lustre.

At last the champion himself came forward,
Uncaring of the cost Kvatch had taken,
For although the garrisons men lay dead,
Four thousand attackers were forsaken.

“Why do you continue? Why persist?
Why not lie down and die?”
The hero looked at the inherent evil,
and knew the reason why.

“You may have won, but we fight for something
Greater than trophies and wealth.
We fight for our homes, our loved ones, our honour,
I fight for my home, not myself.”

The champion laughed, and charged forward to swing,
To crush this impertinent whelp,
Yet summoning strength the hero swung too,
His aim guided with Akatosh’s help.

There, in the courtyard of Castle Kvatch,
The champion of death met his end.
As the hero died too, bright became the sky,
As to Akatosh his soul did ascend.

The horde lay broken amongst rubble and death,
No leader, and no line of retreat,
The heroes of Kvatch had paid with their lives,
But had provided a costly defeat.

The Horde had nowhere to turn after this,
No harbour was safe to hide in,
Kvatch was a call, a rally to arms,
And nobility triumphed over their sin.

Once Kvatch fell, against innumerable odds,
Yet never forgotten is the price
Of its brave defenders, the noble militia,
Who died in such noble sacrifice.

Remember the Heroes who died long ago,
For a cause that they held dear,
Not wealth, or power, or moneys untold,
Just the right to live without fear.

Wow... Amazing... I like it alot.

Wow... I'm amazed you could write a story like that (A Bard's Tale would be a better name )

Thanks for the comments.

I just read through it again and realised how much it sucks, though. I'm going to stop posting fan fiction now, everything I write is coming out as complete and utter drivel. Sorry.

Nonsense! Don´t you dare stop posting..ya hear!

Whoa...I must have missed something. You think your writing is bad? I assure you that I have really enjoyed reading your stories Foster so do us a favor and continue writing, if you should feel the urge. Your writing has been awesome thus far and no matter if you decide to continue writing or not, I have enjoyed your work.

I must agree with minqy....your writing style...and material is both interesting, and good...please give us more...

Now that was really amazing Foster, I didn't know you had poetry in you too. And stop crediting yourself with the "it's a horrible mess" thing since I've done it before and it's pretty lame, even though it getts people to comment on the story more. Anyway, keep up the great work!

Woah im linking to this in my sig! Its awsum!

I loved it. Make another one!!!!

if you stop writing i will personally chop ur comp (x-box or whatever else TES is on) in half with a very sharp (and shiny) antique katana i just bought at my local antique shop (wow they sell swords to Anyone these days)