Lore of Archmagus Zelda of the Wood

Lone among my kind, I stride beneath
the sun. Rune charged and glowing at my back,
the bluebells and old holly in their wreath
salute me. My skin doesn’t burn to black
like my own mother’s, when I pushed her past
the threshold. I go ranging with my fox
and sniff out other vampires. When at last
I find them dozing among dells and rocks,
I creep up silent, brush off leaves and earth
and plunge my pointed staff into their hearts—
they shrivel. Murder is its own rebirth,
each time. Grateful that I can play my part,
I brush off all the death-dust, grey and fine.
All endings have their sweetness—except, mine.

Entered by: 0x3e17…7e9e and preserved on chain (see transaction)