The Wandering Warrior (sequel to Mistress of Death)

He travels alone but always with another
the heavy weight of his life constantly fit to smother
the fragile flame within his heart which keeps him alive
this lone warrior possessed of but a single drive
to protect any in need as recompense
for his once sinful life of lust and needless decadence
his shield and armor thick, his sword kept unerringly sharp
combat his art, which he plays like a harp
his imposing for concealing a truly heroic soul
cracking slowly asunder as he pays his self-imposed toll
risking his life for strangers in need
perhaps for redemption or to from his mortal life be freed
his eyes show the wear from strings of battles without end
and of an existence without gratitude as few ever do tend
his scars each gained from a fight fearlessly fought
each one a monument to what his chosen role has wrought

he wanders the wastes of this one prosperous land
knowing nothing but the cold touch of steel in his hand
his mind constantly awash in memories of the past
of the times before he succumbed to the vices which hast
put him upon his current sorrowful trail
as the Grateful Guardian to all who risk the assail
of traversing the broad abysses where only bandits thrive
and few but the wicked are certain to survive
his face is meditative, even amidst the most horrendous confrontation
as a bastion of safety in a vast conflagration

regret is the only friend to never leave his side
as all the rest depart quickly once their guaranteed safety is no longer denied
in each departure he feels a pang of remorse
as the end of every journey merely returns him to his lonesome course
never feeling the joy of a hug, the romance of a kiss
before once more returning to this land of remiss
yet he continues the cycle, knowing full well the cost
grateful to be the reason his charges' lives were not lost 
taking solace in the futures that hopefully await
those who he helps to avoid an almost certain, grizzly fate
their paths to tomorrow enabled by the time he as spent
protecting them with valiance, his tools often bent

so when once more does he hear the sounds of those in need
by habit or choice he immediately takes heed
of the instinct within him to aid any in jeopardy
no matter their past, or who they may be
the scene soon greeting his grizzled face
is one unusual, even for this foreboding place
as amidst the tattered corpses of a bandit horde
stands a beautiful woman, seemingly there of her own accord 
her body relaxed, her weapon still steaming and hot
as though with their deaths was her freedom bought

thus does this Wandering Warrior approach, prepared for the worst
his desire to aid, with caution and distrust interspersed
she hears the clang of his armor as he draws near
and the sound of his breathing, with light hints of fear
the conversation that follows as curt as it is brief
both listening to each other's stories in skeptical disbelief
though in the end do they both concede
that it would be best to travel together, lest others impede
whatever path awaits them, their futures uncertain
the existence of an end all which is certain
and so with few words is a bond tentatively formed
between a woman, Mirais, her cold heart never warmed
and the knightly Vindictus, a man to chivalry conformed