#Demure

The battle rang with steel clashing against steel,

and the whistles of arrows meant to kill.

Yet there was a lone woman on the field,

surrounded by enemies.

Attired in light leather, she looked demure

even with a long sword clenched in her fists,

raised to her opponents.

 

A roar ripped through her and she charged.

She parried strike after strike

lashing out in studied motions

And sliced the men down in a blood rage.

It held its grip and she looked for another.

Another enemy to lay to waste.
Her sword was coated with gore

But did not dull her blade’s bite.

Glancing at her brothers-in-arms,

She saw their opponents drop.

One

By

One.

Until the shouts of retreat were heard

Filling the field in desperation.

 

They let the men run from them,

Tails tucked between their legs,

And they roared with victory.

 

She held her sword to the sky,

ignoring the blood covering her,

And watched the sun fall

setting aflame the field

In crimson.