Wendle, Second of the Gatesmen

A faceless manikin in a monochrome tuxedo,

A pale warrior wielding a lethal blade.

I draw my sword from it's holster,

And we dance as gentlemen do. 

Neither of us watching the world around us,

There is nothing to see out there.

The only thing that matters is that flash of the blade.

I have never fought with such vigor,

Such determination.

The pale assassin has no such emotion.

He does not fight for a loved one,

Only for the highest bidder.

I go into a frenzied rage,

Fighting not for my own life,

But for my beloved,

Who lies caged below.

In a flurry of strikes I disarm the gentleman 

And my sword points lethal at his plastic neck.

He cowers, and though mute, his expressions tell of fear for one's life.

Why, a soulless manikin is afraid?

Now I've seen everything.

I pick up his sword and throw it into the swamp.

I could swear a hint of gratitude shines behind his featureless face.

He bows, and the gate opens.