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