Lo! In yonder field standeth a henge not of stone, but of swords plunged deep in a circle most fearsome. Their blades catch the sun, blinding all who dare gaze upon them. Some say ‘twas forged by warriors, others claim ‘twas merely the aftermath of a very aggressive blacksmith’s clearance sale.
None may enter without peril, for the wind doth whistle warnings through the steel. Birds dare not perch, nor sheep dare graze, lest they find themselves inconveniently diced. Many a squire hath tried to claim a sword, only to leave with trembling hands and a sudden appreciation for wooden utensils.
And yet, the henge endureth—a circle of silent sentinels, waiting for a hero strong enough to unsheathe its secrets… or at least someone with enough oil to loosen the hilts.And yet, it endureth—a monument to battle, folly, and terrible seating arrangements. Gleaming in the sun, it awaits a worthy hero—or perhaps a fool with an overconfidence in juggling.
Credit | ChatGTP
