A Warden's Tools
By: Keadrich Posted on: April 19, 2007
A Warden's Tools
The reflections of a Runewarden upon the marks of his profession.
His Blade, it sings a song so sweet
As it whistles through the air.
Its arc both terrible and beautiful,
Before through flesh and bone it tears.
His Blade is etched with runes of power,
Edge gleams with Serpent bile.
These aid the weapon in its quest,
But its strength is born of skill and style.
His Blade suffers not the pangs of guilt,
For it is only tempered steel.
For the burden of the Warden's duty,
Is his and only his to feel.
His Plate, it shines with awesome light,
A symbol of his solemn vow.
Protecting him about his way
To protect those others would cut down.
His Plate, it bears his sacred mark,
For he forged it upon the fire.
Made to serve him all his days,
For it shall clad him upon the pyre.
His Plate will suffer a great many blows,
Through battle, war, and spar.
But better his armor the combat scars
Than the faithful Warden mar.
His Totem stands all etched with runes,
Its magic both old and deep.
He wields it with a certain caution,
Its secrets he must forever keep.
His Totem fixed into the ground,
It stands a faithful sentry.
Or when brandished in the hectic fray,
Opponents fear and flee its entry.
His Totem, born of ancient lore,
Symbols of a time long since past.
A boon to those who stand beside,
Bane to those on which it casts.
His Falcon perches upon his wrist,
It soars through skies of blue.
It follows him, his closest friend,
No other ally could be near as true.
His Falcon is a thing of beauty,
An Angel gliding through the skies.
But a dangerous foe in times of need,
A fearsome Demon when it dives.
His Falcon serves him from the egg,
Whether friend or ally or guide.
Whether with feathers so soft or talons like steel,
It serves its master with loving pride.