Here's a little ditty I've been composing.

At the battle of
Val Romeen,
the barren fields ran red,
sown with the seeds of Dwarven Dead.
Lord Granitefist led that
final charge,
with his lady by his side,
he rallied the men
round his flashing blade.
"To me," he cried,
breaking through the shields
of the restless ones.
"Well win this day
or else see our homes
no more."
With a mighty crash
the force drove
through the Dark one's lines,
scatterring the hordes
to the four winds.
But victory came
on solemn notes,
quenching the fire
in the Batle Thane's heart.
His lady lay beside him,
her face the grey of steel,
the crimson creeping round the fatal wound,
staining his beard as he pulled her close,
her last breaths carrying his name.

Who says a priest can't be a poet?
Brother of all good people,
Illwind

Penned by my hand on the 8th of Glacian, in the year 230 AF.