GreyParty

. . . what more can one do, but to fight?

Cower I supposed. Turn tail and fly to hidden caverns, where the illusion of safety will remain until the undefeated, unapproached terror returns for that which has escaped. Eventually, no one is beyond its grasp, so long as it breathes.

So you choose to make a stand, to fight in the moment instead of at a later date. Your weapons may be few, or unused in prior combat, but you have resolved to plant both feet upon this hill, where you very well may die, because someone has to.

And now, watching the death knell of the beast, you duck to dodge the last failing of its horrid tenticles, which lash out to grab, maime, and dismember one last time. Seeking to taste your blood as it chokes on its own.

What a prayer is this: to see the stone rebound, to hear the rushing sigh of wind, and to side step the sigh of rushing wind, as the giant’s body falls. To not be crushed under the dead, headless weight.

And as I realize the complexity of these thoughts I begin a new song:

I can’t worry about tomorrow-
To try and dodge what may fly my way.
And I can’t be worried about tomorrow:
I’ve got enough sh_t in my stall to clean today. . .