Behold, the charioteer dark,
Riding through the cold lands,
On seven horses, out of breath.
The roads are silent with a smell of death,
His scarred face and the fast eyes,
listening, searching for easy prey,
in search of people, in search of gold,
hope no more for victims on the road.
And he chanced upon a maiden fair,
who stirred his heart, locked his stare.
Her eyes tore into his soul,
ripped it bare and he saw his past.
He saw the eyes of all he had slain,
crying, pleading for lives to be spared.
"No!" He cried! and reached for the hilt,
He pushed his sword at the maidens eyes,
She no more stood but vanished into the night.
In her place the winds swirled,
A glow unreal with a morbid howl.
A form emerged, white as a wraith,
"I am fate, my son", it voiced to him.
"For long, have you killed many a men",
"Today is my day, you are my prey".
So it whispered and embraced him...
His skin went cold, his breath grew sharp.
And slain was the slayer in the cold of the night...
