Mace

Blunt, tacit grunt alerts them, diverts them from the Gothic tracery they're engrossed in. Standing 5 feet tall, he blocks the hall from wall to wall, mace in hand the sarabande begins. Lovingly embraced in warfare, this dwarf wields his club as they dance in and out of his reach. No lesson taught, he's brought below by blow 'pon blow of their caustic whips and lashes. Gashes weep. The grunts retreat. The window lights this darkened chapel, sifting the air of all its care. We're whole again.