Across the valleys,
In the night and through the snow,
Men fall in frigid fright,
Awful demons made of ice,
But we are many, unafraid to die,
Despite their strength and their might,
Their numbers are slight; they underestimate man’s will to fight,
One thousand forty three,
Yet only one is required to reach the peak,
We battled strong, with disregard,
Many generations will sing our praise,
Many men and women, know they will our battle cry,
With axe, with sword,
With shield and hand,
We battled with all we had,
One by one the men would fall,
But with every hundred
We took down one,
Shards of frost dismembered and destroyed
Sons were lost and fathers buried beneath the ice,
Many days our spirit tested by the Gods,
Severed limbs and bludgeoned deep,
Gashed and dissected
Our blood melted the cold below,
Two hundred forty five,
Against a clan whose only goal is Ragnarok to make,
Of ice built men towering high,
Only three of which remained to die,
Each of us were bruised and damaged,
Weary from the year we’ve spent,
Our will to protect was gone sometime
Yet, we stayed, dedicated to this plight,
Each night, after the daily bloodshed ends,
We count who’s left, then bury our dead,
And just before I immerse myself in cloth
I pray to those up in the sky,
Return soon, this I beg from you,
Many more seasons past,
Only a handful remained to stand,
Each having met death’s opened door,
And slammed it shut, we were meant for more,
Then as but one frost giant left to slay,
A bolt escaped the kingdom high,
Ice then festered through the sky,
After one week to regain health
The six remaining trekked forth
Knowing this was not the only
Battle we would see,
On our path towards the chaliced peak,
We have rested,
We are ready,
We are the last defense to the Gods,
Keeping Asgaards border safe
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