A poem to Portent on its passing There was a dream that was Portent
A castle built from many stones.
A home to too many, resources stripped to the bone.
The lords of the inquisition held all in sway,
always ready to cut the deadwood away,
and the grammar naxi's to make sure everyone posted the right way
There were to be found the harbringers of rumour
Who listened to the wind, whose words were oft heeded not
Those farseers who shared their visions of future
In both WHFB & 40K.
Then there were the guru's known for their tactics
The ruthless desire to know how to win
War was their religion and efficiency their God.
Mighty loremasters ensured that the old stories still lived
Heresys and heroes, both were remembered
Of Jokearo and Ollanius Pious the tales were told
Brusilov towered like a colossus over the background battlefield.
In P&R the wars were waged with words,
The battles fought as fierce as any with swords
R&M there was talk of many things, from ships to shoes to sealing wax
And of course, in the wastes, pantlessness prevailed .
Now how do I turn the screen black and the text red...
