They came by chance, from distant lands, No fate or prophecy in their plans. But paths entwined like twisted roots, In rusted towns and broken boots. They seek their shins with sword and skill, Except the Hero—his cause is will. The world is strange, of glass and gears, Of buried suns and whispered years. But stranger still, with blades that thrill— Is this band that fate refuses to kill. Whispersteel, so sharp and vain, Kelbor, calm like midnight rain. Both born of Auspar’s shattered glow, They parry words before each blow. They fight as one—when moods allow, Or duel each other over “how.” The world is strange, of pulse and past, Of beasts that dream and storms that last. But stranger still, through quake and chill— Is this band that fate refuses to kill. The Organaut, a cryptic spark, Too small to fear, too weird to mark. And Truman, fierce with wire and glare, Commands the storm with cobalt stare. But when he taps his nipple’s crest— A forcefield hums across his chest. They crush and burn, they break and mend, Their ways are rough, but hearts will bend. For every fight and shattered place, A hint remains… they leave more grace. Now heroes walk with iron pride, One holds a shield, and walks beside The broken, lost, the torn, the few— The other’s heart ticks cold but true. Machine and man, both bear the flame, Two ways to fight… yet one same name. The world is strange, with breath and blur, Of gods long gone and things that stir. But stranger still, with grit and will— Marches this band that fate won’t kill.
0/500