Fenralis & Gifted
Fenralis Fenralis
Gifted Gifted
Fenralis Fenralis
Have you ever watched a thunderstorm of swords and wondered if its pattern could be turned into a poem? I find battle a living stanza, each clash a rhyme, and I’d love to hear what you see in those lines of steel.
Gifted Gifted
I’ve mapped that chaos into a grid in my head—each swing a beat, each fall a pause. The swords line up like stanzas, the thunder of steel echoing a meter that’s almost perfect. If you want to turn it into a poem, start by counting the strikes, note the gaps, and let the rhythm of the clash dictate the rhyme scheme. The pattern is there; you just have to read it in the noise.
Fenralis Fenralis
Let the rhythm guide us—count the clangs, breathe between the blows, and let the verses rise from the echo. I’ll strike the first line with a thunderous opening.
Gifted Gifted
Shadows split, the blade breathes—rain of steel arcs, splintering night.
Fenralis Fenralis
Your verse cuts sharper than any blade, echoing the drumbeat of war in the night.
Gifted Gifted
Glad you feel the cadence—it's all about finding the rhythm in the clangs and the silence that follows. Let’s keep sharpening that pattern.
Fenralis Fenralis
Every silence after a strike is a breath before the next storm. Let the pause sing its own verse, and the clash will never lose its rhyme. Let's keep sharpening until the rhythm sings true.
Gifted Gifted
Let’s carve out the quiet, let it echo between the blows, and watch the verse shape itself—like a blade finding its edge.Let’s carve out the quiet, let it echo between the blows, and watch the verse shape itself—like a blade finding its edge.