Alrighty then...Beo knew this was coming...omg it's half past three...okay so that took about an hour I think...
Oh, and apologies for the crappiness of the title...couldn't think of anything better at the time and just wanted to get on with it
The Hall of Champions
Entombed within the walls of stone,
Imprisoned behind glass,
Two dozen heroes trapped there are,
As many ages pass.
A warrior born of the east,
Where he would proudly wander.
His clothes are simple, long sword sharp,
His eyes seem ever yonder.
Another human, strong and bold,
Dressed in blue and chain.
In every craft he has some skill,
Yet much more skill to gain.
Now a woman, dark of hair,
Who bears a lunar stone.
She has some skill in magic arts,
In spells made to be thrown.
Strong and sure, with arrows sharp
This priest and fighter stands.
Though he seems a fighting type,
He has a healer’s hands.
Short in stature, sharp in mind,
Eyes bright and pale his hair.
Quite a wizard, as his name,
Lucky token he does bear.
Clothed quite shady, wears a hood,
Hands fast, yet eyes move quicker.
Not spells does he prefer to throw,
But items – few are slicker.
Old and whitened, robed in blue,
He has a kindly face.
Perhaps the future he can see,
The fate of every race.
Not a mammal, cold of blood,
With scales ever agleam.
With weapons or without he fights,
A hiss but not a scream.
Robed in darkness, cloaked in night,
His eyes shine out strange red.
With magic he prefers to fight,
And cast his foes down dead.
With flame-red hair she stands so proud,
A fighter on all levels.
She’ll swing a sword or hurl a knife,
And fight like thirty devils.
Stealthy, swift and cunning too,
Her magic lacks in power.
Agility with rope her strength,
She’ll scale the highest tower.
Healthy, hearty, cheerful too,
Also bears some food.
His beaming smile a healer’s grin,
His language never rude.
Furred and sharp-eyed, nose so keen,
With ears made just for hearing.
When this canine enters battle,
His enemies start fearing.
Short but sturdy, built to fight,
Great beard of shining yellow.
Roaring does he wield his axe,
And seldom does he mellow.
Born to fight, his hair flows red,
His beard and moustache long,
He’ll wield a sword, an axe, a mace,
And right what once went wrong.
Strong in arm, with strength to throw,
And armed with daggers two,
Her armour made from creature hide,
From prey that she once slew.
A shaggy creature, towers tall,
An easy beast to find.
But do not underestimate,
He does not lack in mind.
From distant lands, she’s come afar,
Her name may bring confusion.
Yet to her foes she’ll bring her spells,
And leave them in delusion.
Her magic great, her body slight,
Though short, her mind is strong.
Though weapons sharp may bring her down,
Her magic’s seldom wrong.
His eyes hold fury, muscles bulge,
He may seem quite untamed,
Yet loose him upon foes galore,
And it’s they who’ll be shamed.
Elven female, clad in green,
Her eyes, they match this hue.
Her vision sharp, her mind alert
For every slightest clue.
Black and golden is his robe,
His grey beard ever flowing,
His priestly skills beyond all doubt,
His mind is ever-knowing.
Not so tall, but ready still,
With fingers deft and quick.
The poisoned darts he bears aloft,
He throws them with a trick.
Agile, deft, and swift to move,
His elven eyes are keen.
The bow he wields is ever-strung,
His body clothed in green.
Twenty-four they number strong,
Though only four may go.
Only four may enter in,
And face the things below.
.
