Rough Ground - By Kibbolt
A Mage Hunter Poem
Ankles and tendons bitten by a jagged terrain,
baked with muck and loose stones.
A torturous mile hungers for our legs.
Its squelching sounds irritate the soul,
like the itchy leaves painting our skin pink,
or the taught leathers of our heavy straps.
No rocks to rest, forced to carry the needles in our shins onward.
Our pace a crawl, our patience a thread.
Hope, not sundered, but certainly waned.