The hooves pounded nobly across the field
Like the approaching storm of doom and woe
Thunderous bolts pierce the ground as the go
From darts the Valar gave them a shield
The Prince a glittering sword did wield
With lance and armor his steed even glow'd
Proud company of the Mark also rode
With equal point values (350+) the would not yield
Few fell to the fury of the arrows
But the woods sheltered the gnarling pike-men
With priority the wargs did charge out
Hope remained alive til the Prince's sword bowed
His men to the right never pierced the glen
His armor, fate, and might proved less than stout.
Is the west to be lost?
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