I was playing with words earlier and decided to have a go at producing a tale in the alliterative style which was used during the middle ages for tales and sagas and the like. Its a bit rough, but its fairly strange trying to write poetry in this style when you're not used to it. Anyway I'll stop waffling and get on with it:

The Death of Sorkvild

By Dagon Fel docks, the darkness dismays
For in his tall tower, Sorkvild incants.
Silent in shadow, the spirits bestir
And all are watchful, at The End of the World.
Downing his drink, the dark man stood,
“Hearken!” he called, to the house of faint-hearted.
“Enough of this evil, I offer to end it.”
He arose axe in hand, not care for objections
And maddened by mazte, Dark-hearted Magnus
Went to do battle, with murder in mind.

They said not a sound, as he slipped from the door.
His strong hand held, his heavy axe handle.
Careful he crept, through twilight streets
To the tower he turned, tall on the hill.
For violence he thirst, for vengeance and blood.
Onward he marched, moon mournful above.
Ferocious in fury, he followed the path.
He hastened ahead, his end the high hall,
Abode of Sorkvild, and sinister scheme.
He espied an entrance, a dark door to fame,
And shifting his axe, he stalked to the step.
He proceeded within, and spied his first prey.
A Nordic apprentice, reading by night.
Great Magnus charged, to offer his challenge.
Boldly he swung, his axe bit bone
Bronze walls bespattered, with sanguineous blood.
The flesh of the mage, he flayed from the corpse,
Least the master above, a new monster make.

To Sorkvild the master, his seething wrath surged,
Seeking black slaughter, the ladder he climbed.
Hell-bent to destroy, the dark mage’s haven.
In his impatience, he incautiously rushed
Into the room, ere he was ready,
Proud Sorkvild proclaimed, you play to my plans
A fine creature you’ll make, after creation.
So come kiss my blade. For heaven and hell,
Magnus made ready, to meet blade to madness.
From far inside, a fierce battle-fire
Bound bleak Magnus, to blood and battle.
Driven by gods, for gold or for glory
Lithe man and lich, clashed hand-to-hand.
The dark mage drew, his dagger determined for death,
Undaunted and daring, dark-heart drove in
And with stalwart strike, straight to the neck
The life of the mage, was ended at last.
But deep in the darkness, proud Magnus did die
Sorkvild’s black dagger, deep in his chest.

A nice, dark poem. I love those.

Also, this is sooooo ironic, because me and my brother were exploring Sorkvild's Tower yesterday, and talking about the Masque of Clavicus Vile and whatnot. Creepy...