My young cousin demanded a story which you don’t get to hear about here. However, thinking on it, I started imagining this. . .
Arose the horned beast from out o’his grave,
and shook the settled dust about his cave;
So did above the mountain tremble great,
and thus did I accept the challenge of fate.
For I had sworn vengeance against this beast,
and knew the signs of his returning feast.
He stood and stretched as a man would from sleep,
his arms extending wide as wells are deep.
No light had I until I lit the flame,
and saw his shape shadowed against a pane
of thin obsidian by dead men carved.
They built the beast’s temple and therein starved.
It underground, his sepulcher fashioned
by diverse peoples captured, which rationed
he slowly ate, until but five were left.
The quintessent interred their king and wept.
O horned beast, you live only to die.
Now hear and fear my final battle cry.
Tale Told 