Our Chosen Hero

With calloused hands from metalwork, he's packing up his things

A smiling mask in one bag, a flute that never sings

Get your affairs in order for your noble quest of woe

Not the first, perhaps the last chosen by the queen to go

Off to save the world from the ever-creeping plague

Remember all your chosen, remember Jacob's name

He started off so humble, he would never be the same

The bladesmith would cower at the hero he became

The swamp was filled with voices and the rotting smell of death

But the rose whose thorns were daggers both stole and held his breath