The clutch of thoughts couldn't bind her,
Her radiant eyes, grave face and hands was on her sword-hilt
Drifted her head high,
Knowing her all skills, believing her innovations
Fighting for the love of dance, dance of quest
The spark of metal and boo of flames was like music written
Just for her,
Her fighting was for glory, not for blood- shed,
They were weir-lind, the heritor of the warrior stone
She always slept better with blades beneath her bed.
She gently whispered, ' I am someone to fear, not to hunt, '
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