The ReaperI will tell you a tale, of a man on a steed.More Like This
This man was brave and without greed.
He was a traveller, a man without home.
Throughout the lands he did roam.
His name was Roran, his blade was true.
Wherever he walked, cheer bloomed and grew.
But he was not alone, he rode in a band.
Who were sell swords, their prices most grand.
But he was different, he asked no pay.
Not for food, water or any supplies for the day.
He accepted no charity, no gifts nor reward.
His collection was sparse unlike his partners' hoard.
He ate only bread, and meat from the land.
He gave nor took from feasts so grand.
None know his story, nor where he hails.
All efforts at finding truth invariably fails.
But he was cheerful, happy and kind.
No shred of darkness in his heart you will find.
This man had no title nor noble name
And yet his life is legend, his deeds are fame.
For this man, wreathed in rags.
Held a secret in his tattered bags.
A great scythe, with blade of bone.
Evil has been reaped, good has been sow