Britons and Celts

A Song of Slaughter

“Graham sought the haughty chief. And now on high,
His sword that flam’d and lighten’d in the sky,
With whirlwind sound descends, and cleaves his head:
No force of motion could the stroke impede.
The yawning chasm well’d out a purple flood;
Forth rush’d the soul effus’d with with gushing blood.” […]

Britons and Celts

Blood and Grace

“The cleanness of the strike cleaved the spinal cord and parted the fat and the flesh so far that the bright steel blade took a bite from the floor.” […]