He was a man who stood 6 hooves high
Arrayed in black, twin swords at his sides
A runewarden, brave and true
Who'd walk along to unseen tune
On his face he wore a black steel mask
He'd sit in the pub and drink whiskey from a flask
Nobody ever saw his face
Hidden, scarred, marred, in every place

As he walked on the highway from Delos to Shallam,
Just after the waking of the dawn,
He met a siren, a lovely lass
Fighting a bear which had wandered onto the pass

Magic streamed from her fingers, fire, ice
But the bear had caught her in a vice.
He sprung into battle, twin blades gleaming
Touched a rune on his chest while he was screaming
Surrounded by an aura, he jumped into the fray
On that day it was a bear that he did slay.

The siren was thankful, to say the least,
And invited him to a forestal feast.
They dined on wild boar and potatoes,
And drank wine from a bottle upon the table.
She looked at him with wide eyes of maple,
"Would you love me, are you able?"
His glance skewed slightly, his face turned ashen
"You would not love me, for I am from Hashan."
Her laughter was immediate, and she said with glee,
"Honey, that doesn't matter to me."
He smoothe his hair with a little grin,
Hiding his deepest fear within.
She smiled back, unaware, in bliss,

She tapped the mask, "Show me this."
He hesitated, fearful of her response,
And then, by impulse, removed the clasp.
She looked at him with a little gasp,
And touched his face, running along horrid scar,
Which dissapeared, making him prettier by far.

The Siren and The Runewarden that day were wed,
The mask cast aside by their wedding bed.


Penned by my hand on the 25th of Scarlatan, in the year 433 AF.