There Osmund stood, their force out-poured.
They heeded not display of sword.
Drawn to answer, his blade set true.
These lifeless march, morale anew.
The gathered watch, across the moor.
In hampered voice, they worried, swore.
Sun craven now, too dark the cloud.
Osmund made his demands, aloud.
Medal lifted, evoked the words.
There crumbled they, the ambling hordes!
Unsure their eyes, the crowd aghast.
Devout recall, upon long last.
Old Osmund’s tale, not zealot he.
But truly thus: a hunter be.