The land was beset by demons
Nothing seemed to harm them
Until two were slain by another
Over some dispute
The bodies bled ichors
Smelled foul and acrid
Like some fetid perfume
The king called upon his mystics
To look upon the bodies of the dead
See what might harm these beasts
For if nothing could then only doom
Would be the future
The king would die
From the highest down to the least
The mystics found the secret
That the blood of the demons burned like fire
Acid or flame the same result
So they forged a blade with the demon's blood
Molten steel and demonic plasma
Birthing a sword
That could slay the greatest of the demon kind
But only if borne by a warrior of pure heart
The demon wars have long since ended
But the sword still lays in wait
For it slew the demons without effort
Gaining the epitaph
Kinslayer
Named thus by the demons
Yes it lays in wait
Ready for the warrior's hand
Should the demons come back
