Pulchritude

Daggers on a hand
Twisted, gnarled:
A cluster of oak fingers
pluck a stalk of bluebells
Fire-breath inhales sweet, pure fragrance.
Golden eyes widen,
erase creases, folds of scaly lids,
to view the beauty of blue tinkling jewels.
Unfamiliar sound.
He turns from misty meadow,
peace invaded.
Young hunter,
Pale blue sight intruded on by shaggy blond,
But lightness fades to hating gray.
Beautiful face contorts with rage,
meets one of bent curiosity
which falls.
A shaft from courageous explorer,
creature slain.
Youth shouts at victory!
Shares a tale of bravery, cunning,
and evil overcome,
while he who dwelt alone, so dies.
A patch of bluebells laid his head,
so soft, to bleed,
because he was not like the man.