Choose Your Own
In twinning towns of mage and knight
One may find darkness, the other, light.
In Sword lies a fountain in a central courtyard,
Its water can cleanse any blade, be it marred
By the blood of an orc, a troll, or a demon,
And will sharpen its edge for much further reapin'.
Amid the masses of fencers and fighters
Walked a woman in red. And just like a spider
She carried eight swords, and could draw them as quickly
As if she had eight limbs—a talent so nifty.
But from time to time, she'd visit the fountain
To clean each sword. She'd often lose count and
Start from the beginning, until all swords were gleaming.
Meanwhile from the shadows, another was scheming
To steal a blade, maybe two, or all eight.
He'd beguile her with lies, and in haste fabricate
A tale most alarming that would send her away
In a hurry, while leaving her forgotten long blade.