Sing, O muse, of that tragic tale. Recite of that sorrow,

One that would befall such a man as Gregory Berg, Hero

Of the Scorched Sands. Of quest, and ancient relic,

Of war, and treachery. That of the great man, whom

fought a thousand battles, lost a million friends, and

journeyed the path no man shall speak. Yes, yes, muse,

tell us of this.



It was of that late twenty first century, one where nations ruled,

Corrupted and dark. One where men starved, unwanted, unseen.

And in this world, was a single man, his name said only with respect.

The man, by the name of Berg, who sacrificed all in that he would

Redeem his nation’s glory.



And as he made his way down the black, Syrian path,

He prepared to do just that, fighting tyranny and evil wrath.

His death-spitting construct hung by his side, dangling and prepared

For a roar that brought all, small creature, great beast, all scared.

His arms set ready, his mind angered by intruding evil.

What had come to stay his path?



“Come forth beast, and show your face that I might smite you and send

You to Hades, along with the rest of your kin.” called Berg, sensing evil eye

And raised hair, burning to his back. “Where do you hide, for ‘tis your time to die!

He finished. His words did resonate, across the trees and through the

Great Syrian valley, upon the tips of the mountain peaks, and to the ears

Of fell beast. Great monster stepped from the shadow at last, showing

His sinister form. His eyes, midnight dark, cast fear into the wild around him.



Beast, A disgusting form of man and wolf, growled and opened its maw,

“O Hero of lands beyond, retreat you must, as you cannot tame my rending claw.

So, flee in terror, your single choice, lest I drink your blood this night!”

The horror smiled, drool lining said jaw, for horror underestimated hero’s might.



“Go back, Fergon-beast, to whatever foul realm you cometh! Shall I take

Your head?” said he, retorting, never fearing beast’s evil dialogue.

When no response he received, hero’s hand penetrated the smog,

blade in it’s grip. “Fergon, I come to banish you to the god-relic from

which you came, to strip that relic from the treacherous thumb

of my once friend Lyrus. Do you choose to defy my will?”

Berg challenged. Beast growled, preparing his next kill.



“Puny mortal, you understand not my prowess. Ready yourself

For end!” And so terrible beast, mighty hero, clashed in the dark

Of the Syrian night, cold wind lashing their skins, one accept stark

Fate. Biting bullet cut cool beast’s blood in great spouts, accepting task

that was theirs. Great battle waged, as warriors likeness’ became masks

of gore. Bloodied blade sliced into deep skin. Dark claw mauled clean flesh.



“Stay back, creature, for the battle is mine!” Ordered Berg,

Inside his cage of ignorance, caught. “Why do you fight

On as I tear life from your earthly body? What light,

What illusion is being played here?”



“Your speech, dramatic though is, is futile mortal.

My strength doubles yours,” Fergon did chortle.

“My powers, god-given, outmatch your will,

your brawn. I have the upper hand! You have not the skill!”

The two mighty combatants traded blows in unison.



With a breath, Berg stumbled back. His mind did decide,

A plan was made. “Truly, you are victorious, I turn my side!

Your ability outmatches mine, strength greatly!” called he.

Beast did smile, relishing in victory. “A gift, I will

if spare you my life!” Evil beast became intrigued, drowned

in greed. With a hand, hero offered his death-spitter. Beast frowned.

Tricked, he would not be.



“Why do you attempt this foolery of me? You take me

For and idiot, a simple minded fool? I will kill you with glee!”

Fergon did roar in anger as he struck. Bewildered hero could

not react, thrown asunder and cast to the bushes. Daze overtook

brave hero, head battered, leg shattered, body suddenly shook.



As vision faded, beast making final approach, hero did

recount his great tale, his journey for the great artifact, stolen,

retrieved, and stolen again. Of how he fought, over four countries

to find said artifact and exact revenge on treacherous friend. And so,

as vision died away, the tale only began.

Sing, O muse, of that tragic tale. Recite of that sorrow, One that would befall such a man as Gregory Berg, Hero Of the Scorched Sands. Of quest, and ancient relic, Of war, and treachery. That of the humble man for he would not boast, but many would say great man, whom fought a thousand battles, lost a million friends, and journeyed the path no man shall speak. Yes, yes, muse, tell us of this.