Out of his fly burning lamps, and sparks of fire erupt. The armor upon his back is firm and unyeilding, no force save one may move them. When he pulls himself to full heigh, the heroes of old tremble. To him adamant becomes as cloth, and dragon scale as paper walls. No arrow fired by mortal can cause him grief, stone nor cannon of airship can do him no pain and crumble against his side. When he swims the waters boil and foul as if stew of the orcs. Behind him rides such a wake, one would think the world had ended. Upon Cyrus there are none to match him, he is made without fear of God. He controls all which is corrupt, and despair pays him tribute.
