Let's face it. This isn't about games anymore.

Occasionally, I'll take an idea or an image, and totally play it out into a . . . what exactly? Not really a short story, certainly not a novella, barely even a realized idea. Well, anyway, yesterday's post (Really Tall Trees) was one of those, and you guys seemed to like it, so here's another one. I took a common object / place / person / idea / whatever, and wrote it out as a totally different analogy of itself. See if you can guess what the real thing is by the end of the post.


Thirty heroes girded in white stood in two crescent rows, on a hill awash with blood.

In front, the cleanest and brightest of these men held vivid banners, whipping in the hot, stale air that blew across the red field. These men sat astride quick destriers, themselves barded in white. The forward attackers gripped bright, shining, thin swords.

Behind them, larger, duller men with wide, plain faces stood waiting. Their swords were thicker, easily two hands wide, and as tall as a man. These men were known more for bludgeoning their enemies, pounding on them with the wide swords. Their armor was patchwork, but clean.

Further back, thick dwarves rested on mighty hammers, as massive and tall as themselves. Their armor was strong, thick, mottled and scarred. Long, bushy beards covered their faces, and angry bright eyes glared out at the horizon. These men were prepared to tear into the enemy, rip them asunder, without fear, always without fear.

Drenched in sweat, they stood solemnly waiting, watching. Then, in the distance, they saw it through the shimmering heat. In the distance, a giant mass approached with frightening speed. They stood and waited. The mass shifted shape, and changed course to intercept them. One of the dwarves in back lifted his hammer and rested it on his shoulder. The mass rushed to meet them, running headlong into them. At the last possible moment, the men in front gave out a piercing cry, and rushed into the mass. As one, they attacked, slicing, stabbing, ripping at the enemy. The mass flowed over them, around them as the others took up the attack. Men in the middle began swinging, pounding the enemy flat
around them. The dwarves leapt at the enemy, driving their hammers into the densest folds of the mass, squashing it, tearing it apart. No one ran. Every man fought, with a precision born of experience. The mass flowed over them, around and through them, but they did not yield.

Then it was gone, the mass was broken up, destroyed, and left leaking off the hill past them. Bits and pieces of the mass were kicked down the hill, and the men returned to their stations. Slowly, their ragged breathing returned to normal. They looked back across the horizon and waited.











It's based on an old riddle that I first read in the hobbit :

Thirty white horses on a red hill,
First they champ,
Then they stamp,
Then they stand still.

The answer is teeth and gums.