I’m back to good old-fashioned medieval octosyllabic verse, Tolkien’s favorite poetic form.
As silent as the breeze upon
The laden boughs in Autumn-tide,
Alaglîr crept, Brêglath his bow
And quivered arrows at his side.
The Wood-elf’s shot flew swift and sure:
An Orc fell shorn of sight and life,
No more to trouble mortal folk
With fearsome purpose or with strife.
The Elf-bow bent again, but then
A Warg sprang forth with gnashing maw;
The Wood-elf’s sword cried out its song
And split the beast from end to jaw.
His bowstring’s hissing cleaved the air,
Another Orc clutched at its chest;
And soon Alaglîr’s friends below
Brought bloody reckoning to the rest.