The Ballad of Rog, Grey of the Hills

From ash-wet hills, the grey storm came, Rog, teeth bared, with no thought of fame. He claimed the night, the glint, the gleam, And filled his pockets with every dream. Shards and beads, they sang in light, He took them all, by folly or might. No plan, no pause, no cunning mind, Just fury born of muscle and grind. Rog the Grey, the world’s great storm, No bard can tell, no laws conform. He knows it all, yet grasps but air, The truth leaks out in fleeting flare. While griffons soared on wings of flame, Rog rode his swine with cosmic name. Levitation held the beast aloft, Its squeals and Rog’s war-cry cut the soft. He feared the sky, the feathered blade, Yet met the earth unafraid. The world would shake beneath his tread, And danger fled when Rog charged ahead. Some say he spoke, in sudden light, The secrets of the endless night. But words dissolved before they stayed, A glimpse of thought the gods had made. The Vonindod, trapped and proud, Roared in fury, dark and loud. Rog did not think, Rog did not plan, He tore the beast apart by hand. Steel and spirits, wrenched and freed, Souls escaped from iron seed. No spell could match his savage art, No wisdom pierced his reckless heart. Rog the Grey, untamed, untaught, By death, by fate, by gods’ own thought. He strikes the world and disappears, The echo of a thousand fears. “Shards and beads, he gathers still… Beware the pig that bends the will… Rog comes when all hope flees, And what he breaks… none mends with ease.”