Author: MW
Through mists and fen and moor
He, gloom shrouded, roams.
Low grasses breathing out
Water so dense you could
Nearly swim through it
Do not hinder his long-legged stride.
This is his place
And you are not welcome
Wanderer.
Drenched as you are,
Haunted by this moonless night,
Where shine only his strange eyes.
You have come, seeking his head.
Wanderer,
You have come to spill his blood,
Wanderer,
With your damascened blade
And your well-greased shoes.
The heath has no use
For your castle-bred wealth,
Nor your thief’s gold, nor your hallowed halls,
Wanderer.
You should not have come,
Wanderer.
But stay a while longer,
Where the marches meet the mists
Your fire-warmed halls
Will not miss you,
While he uses your knife as a toothpick
Worrying at threads of leather
Caught still on his many small sharp teeth.
And you will wander evermore
Upon the fog filled fen
A shade shot through with
An uncanny glow
Glinting blood-soaked red.