Duck Lake Story; one.

Seemingly, the hand undesirably deemed fate decided he was not rebuked enough. Perhaps it was timely, in a cruel, contorted manner. All he knows in the twinkling, the writhing under some vengeful vessel; the sun drinking away the sky:
        and the candle held to cheek and eye as the embers ruin him —

        Welded shut tearful lashes were, and the beating of a faster, braver, wiling heart —
        a raging hymn in his ears, rising of fear like yeast in an oven,
        (fear wrath pain tear wind earth sky sun live)
        a flint and steel spark as the embers join him:

        anguish.

        Bloodied lips uncurls to unveil inexperienced sabres;
        a shriek of a warlord that made the undine Naiad ripple as so did her waters, spilt bloodlet dilutes the lake's surface. As he was possessed by phantasmal essence. 
        The filched throat of loathed enemy betwixt slavering jaw.

        What had he become? Something to bewarned, heeded. He found the taste of it delectable. And so on this solemn eve, the mini-warlord severs his pride from the hilt of it's shoulders —
and after the sun fully is laid to rest in bed of the horizon, he lays in wait for his henchmen.

I am the answer, I am the swordsman.