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.
Before he would take the sword left behind
The thief had to pause, for a thought came to mind
That perhaps he should end his clandestine ways.
He'd been stealing so long he lost count of the days,
And luck wouldn't always be there in his favour.
He may one day find that the fruits of his labour
Would be a quick hanging, or at least a cleaved hand.
And so quickly he called for the lady, and ran.
"You forgot your sword!" he said, and she froze,
She turned around, and began to disclose
The curse of the sword, for if it was stolen
The thief would be poxed, from foot to face swollen.
So thankful he was that he turned a new leaf,
Now gracious and giving... and no longer a thief.