A miniature epic poem for my character, the Running Shadow. The setting is an extremely militant alternate world. Enjoy.

PS-I might add more later, but don't hold me to that.

The Epic of the Running Shadow

A man with no known name
Bearing sanguine crimson dress
Roamed the lands, an urban nomad
Hunted for reasons more mysterious than he
Warriors from the king came
Fewer than none had success
At his feet fell both dog and comrade
None of them were as skilled as he
Not gun nor sword nor bomb nor flame
Much to the soldiers’ distress
Could slay the man who was scarlet-clad
None could fathom him

He had gained more than his share
Of titles and epithets in large supply
Crimson Nightmare, Red Scare, Running Shadow
All made by survivors to relay what he was
But their accounts did little to make aware
The other fighters sent off to die
He held the sight of a hawk and the speed of an arrow
A magnificent warrior is what he was
There was nothing with which to compare
His skill with a gun or foresight of magi
They failed to defeat not a single foe
None could fathom him

A sniper by the surname Johnson
A husband and father of three
Holding the profession of assassin
Given a request to kill the Shadow
The beginning of the end had then begun
He could not prepare for a battle of this degree
After learning where he might find the gunman
He went to the tallest tower to kill the Shadow
After a glimpse of him in the scope of his gun
A bullet flew by, shattering debris
The second round nailed the coffin
None could fathom him

The great soldier-detective Hunter
Took up the task of slaying the criminal
Confident in his victory he was
Leaving his home with only a knife and revolver
Once he found the target he approached at leisure
He came to the Shadow with demeanor most civil
Claiming to be trying to defend the world’s laws
The Shadow retrieved his revolver
They each fired six rounds at each other
All missed, so they entered melee most agile
But Hunter was soon in death’s jaws
None could fathom him

Branson was man of sword
He too was told to kill an immortal
No argument was made in protest
He could not see his fate
The warnings given he ignored
He had never failed with his skill so artful
He thought none had the skill he possessed
But death would be his fate
From behind, to the Shadow he rushed toward
But the Shadow leaped out of reach and could duel
With a bullet a life he did divest
None could fathom him

After his third kill for the day
The Shadow went along his way
No more blood to be spilt in the fray
The start of the evening had just begun
So he turned to face the red sun
Hoping that for now everything was done
He continued to travel through a land of disarray
Wondering when others would try to make him prey
Just for him to defeat in their dismay
Forever he would move swiftly in a run
Forever he would hold his hand near his gun
Who had fathomed him? The answer is none.