Here my footsteps pad upon this meadow,
Obscurred by the mist laden chill in the air,
A watcher in the distance does catch my eye,
Unearthly and pale figure, beckoning to me.

Standing upon the marshy earth,
He calls out my name forlornly,
Armoured in shirts of mail,
A mercenary from the distant past.

I approach unsettled but curious,
Creeping towards the ghostly presence,
He steps back and retreats into the mist,
His form scatters into the woods.

I give chase, my feet carrying me swiftly,
Hearing my name echo on the winds,
Stumbling over knots of branches,
Falling before a great oak's roots.

The shade looks down upon me,
And softly whispers my name,
His lilting voice from northern isles,
A warrior from foreign lands.