His sword drags over grey stone,

Uneven lines bleed from the tip,

He moves with no hesitation,

Leaving destruction in his wake.

Battlefields swim in shadows,

Overflowing with lost spirits,

Yet he looms above their bodies,

Cloaked in gloom and melancholy.

He wanders each desolated land,

As a ghost of misery and discourse,

Wandering with the specter of death,

The only friend welcome by his side.