The Mercenary

He dances to his beat,
marches on his hymn.
Hired by others for war
but works not on their whim.
On the field of battle he is,
a figure of grace and deathly poise
he wades through hordes
without a glimmer or noise.
Those unlucky to cross his path
know of his relentless wrath

His blade is no judgment of righteousness
nor the fangs of viciousness
he favor neither good nor evil
fights on both the sides of God & Devil
An Embodiment of war and Nemesis
the one who fuels the cogs of Ragnarök and Genesis
Fighting for neither pride nor wealth
nor honor nor valor nor vengeance
Just for some deep rooted Sadistic pleasure
from the putrid smell of rotten flesh and decadence

Legend talks of a fabled Apothecary
who'll alleviate the world of its misery
Rebellion grows with each passing hour
and hopes it to be The mercenary
They know his skill and his peerless strength
they silently chant his name at length

Hoping that he's the key that triggers the avalanche

that ultimately delivers their fitting revanche.