Beorning

Wake up, my friends! I make wild call,

This winter troubled us too long!

Shake off the snow, dear huorn,

And crack thick ice, roots are so cold,

You, little squirrel, find your mum,

And you, strong deer, gather all,

Sharpen your horns, you wildest goat,

We'll find those who brought the saw!

Wake up, my friends, we march at dawn!

I awoke charging through fire.

Bounding and bellowing through the smoke and flames, calling out to my friends, but all I can hear are pained cries and foul chattering. The sound of metal slicing flesh and chopping bone plagues my ears, while the sounds of clicking and hissing drive me to near madness. I had come back hoping to be greeted with warmth and kinship, but instead, I am left with the sounds of pain, torture and doom.

"Why... oh why did this little bird had to die?.." rang like a bell in beorning's head. A bear that had been in so many battles and witnessed death pretty much every other day, was absolutely touched by such little and most likely unimportant to others event.

Rolling on the patch of nice smelling flowers and after the rain wet grass at Sweetmead was unexpectedly disturbed by rather stomping sounds of someone walking.

"Hurr....Hurr...."