Elven Sword

Easy grace and fluid motion

Wields the sword that strikes a foe

No target given to grime-fouled steel

Always striking flesh he seeks

Fair form protected by bands of steel

Armor that hearkens to the forms of the wood

Shield a protector as well as weapon

Shaped to resemble a steel leaf

Heaps of dead lay about him

Victims of his blade so keen

No enemy blade will meet with his

None can match his Elven quickness

Midnight cloak now a deeper hue

Marred by something other than earth and sweat

These misshaped creatures are fools to challenge him

He speaks not, but allows his sword to do its lethal work

Only now does he begin to laugh, a joyous sound

His heart being kindled by battle's joining

Little save battles end will stay his song

When he pauses to admire his blades fine work

There he will stand, tall and proud amid the ruin

Wondering how many his sword has claimed

A faint smile will touch his lips

As he gazes on his truest friend

A steel blade, keener than all

Bright silver now stained with black