A thin horn note sounded from the battlements high above. Many at Canillin Keep had all but forgotten that a lone sentry still patrolled the crenellated heights of the Western barbican, but the sound was unmistakable.

The peaceful life of the small fortress was shattered as the few men of fighting fitness scrambled to don rusty mail and imperfect swords. The scattered muster was conspicuously drawn from the overly old and overly young - the most capable militia had been summoned to die in far-away fields the last time that chilling horn had called. But now death had come to their doorstep.

Gripping makeshift blades and worm-eaten shields in shaking hands, the meagre forces of Canillin made for the battlements. Those with initiative carried hunting bows or shepherds' slingshots, but all knew in their hearts the inadequacy of human missiles now that the Age of Strife was upon the realm.

The Foes from the Woods would be upon them swiftly and with all the merciless chill of creeping midnight ice. Cities and farmlands had withered before this relentless tide, unleashed upon the land for reasons no one knew. And now it was the turn of Cannilin Keep to face the hordes of the Prince of the Moonlit Realms and his sinister bat-winged retinue.

The air was getting abnormally cold atop the castle walls, and the fearful gasps of the men-at-arms escaped as misty vapour. All had heard of the frigid dread that preceded the arrival of the Lunar Host, but such rumours only strengthened the terror of the icy onset.

Through chattering teeth, a uselessly armoured Cannilin elder muttered a final vigil from frail beard-framed lips: “By the Lady of the Ever-Glade…may our judgement be swift…” The prayer comforted its speaker no more than those in its earshot, for the words ended just as the weak sun was eclipsed by a fell moon, and the Keep was plunged into the cold, black void of sorcerous midnight. The Prince had come.

I quite enjoyed that.

James wrote:A thin horn note sounded from the battlements high above. Many at Canillin Keep had all but forgotten that a lone sentry still patrolled the crenellated heights of the Western barbican, but the sound was unmistakable.

The peaceful life of the small fortress was shattered as the few men of fighting fitness scrambled to don rusty mail and imperfect swords. The scattered muster was conspicuously drawn from the overly old and overly young - the most capable militia had been summoned to die in far-away fields the last time that chilling horn had called. But now death had come to their doorstep.

Gripping makeshift blades and worm-eaten shields in shaking hands, the meagre forces of Canillin made for the battlements. Those with initiative carried hunting bows or shepherds' slingshots, but all knew in their hearts the inadequacy of human missiles now that the Age of Strife was upon the realm.

The Foes from the Woods would be upon them swiftly and with all the merciless chill of creeping midnight ice. Cities and farmlands had withered before this relentless tide, unleashed upon the land for reasons no one knew. And now it was the turn of Cannilin Keep to face the hordes of the Prince of the Moonlit Realms and his sinister bat-winged retinue.

The air was getting abnormally cold atop the castle walls, and the fearful gasps of the men-at-arms escaped as misty vapour. All had heard of the frigid dread that preceded the arrival of the Lunar Host, but such rumours only strengthened the terror of the icy onset.

Through chattering teeth, a uselessly armoured Cannilin elder muttered a final vigil from frail beard-framed lips: “By the Lady of the Ever-Glade…may our judgement be swift…” The prayer comforted its speaker no more than those in its earshot, for the words ended just as the weak sun was eclipsed by a fell moon, and the Keep was plunged into the cold, black void of sorcerous midnight. The Prince had come.

isnt that a bal-sagoth lyric?

That's the response I got to my last epic! 'B-S' must be imitating me.