blade of crimson red.

Thy eyes of silver, blade of deep red, veiled in a shroud as dark as twilight.
These are what portray its valor.
Down the highlands it comes forth, riding unto the township ahead, none knowing what lie ahead, covering its blade in crimson red.
Its edge was of old favor, tarnished and sodden in old and new blood, from many of kinfolk preceding those of current, reliance as it might be, it shall be the descent of thoust carried it across the lands.
None set upon the dreary, none set unto prospect, none hearkened the hushed cries of those in thy ghastly spectacle.
This was what it knew of what thoust was to do, like a lion on the plains, stalking
its quarry, up overhead in the opaque night, down to the earth below, striking with meticulousness of the remedial man with thoust dray revising thru the lands.
Soon enough this took of note and the people began to look toward those that took.
First, they thought it was those taken by the sovereign, then it arose untiring with question, sons and daughters, apprentices too, the people had not known what to do, when the lifeless begun to transpire on the thoroughfares from nowhere, at the suns ascent toward the heavens, new deceased rose from the mist that covered nocturnal.
For thoust has struck the outright time before capture, hanged, and gutted, for its decisive breaths weren’t squandered, for thy alleged “heed thy edge of crimson red”.
But the people hadn’t heeded and instead held lest they had stopped the vexatious tribulation upon their parish.
But there lied the blade had been covered in crimson red, willing to cause more destruction in its place.
For death has lastly reared its head toward, taking tinge of what thy hath said.
For Death rests nowhere else, rather than upon thy head.
Whilst of a sword overhead of thy hearth within thoust rest.