Snow caps the surrounding peaks in white
Windblown drifts that hang, threatening.
Stark against a cornflower sky, bright
In the light of day. Frightening, in a way.

What slumbering giant lies beneath the snow,
Boulder fists tucked under Estachian chin?
Deep in ponderous dreams, grinding slow
His teeth of shale, as in a child's tale.

His molten fury, when loosed upon the town
Of Inbhir Ness, what damage may be wrought?
From high on wintry cliffs, casting down
Great marble blocks and glittering emerald rocks,

The dwarven miners' boon turned to bane.
Now come the foreign glory-seeking horde,
The fighting factions united briefly in campaign
Against the giant foe; a-hunting we will go.

An idyllic alpine vale turned battleground.
Adventurers as an avalanche descend
To fight with dire purpose newly found,
Flying fists and spells, blades, teeth as well.

Pummeling, pounding, the mountain giant bashes
Helms and heads of knights and robed mages.
But these too take a timeous toll - a gash
Cut through his skin: red the color deep within.

Leaking life blood hot as lava flowing
Scarlet rivers wend around and burn to ash
The dwarven village. Cool breeze blowing
Off the snow turns to stone the lava flow.

Come dawn, the mountain rests still and silent.
The mourning village starts a fresh revival.
Winter's blanket conceals the violence
Whence the giant woke and the mighty mountain broke.


Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Valnuary, in the year 857 AF.