A Poem Wot I Wrote

 Arowe was mesmerised by Sir Briefadel's story.  So much of it resonated with what he himself had been through.  being born into a high position in society was not easy - sure, nothing like being a farm labourer but tough nonetheless. 

However, Arowe's motivation was entirely different to that of Lord Urderel's illegitimate, albeit powerful son.  The young elf was just a dreamer - he wanted to be part of the epic story that is told on the stage and sung by bards travelling far and wide.  One might suppose that is why he took so easily and readily to Riffkin, and loved having a statuesque gladiator and stout halfling to fight alongside.

He felt he had to tell Sir Briefadel something of himself.  So he stood, took the actors pose, waited for the attention of the audience gripped by pure charisma learnt from years studying the greats:

The Castle of Glendorne, to the manor born,

A privilege bestowed but purpose not owed.

Living to read verse and lengthy prose,

To tell stories filled with adventure and force.

But all the while dreaming

That he was the hero direct from the page torn.

With sounds of pipes of Pan the next chapter began

Finding themselves outnumbered and overrun

But fighting with numbers fewer, the terror of the swamp and sewer

The arrow and sword, would write the last word.

Cleansing fire flames a-weaving

The legend could begin to rise from the ground.

Arowe sat down again. Quietly he said. "It's not finished. But, thanks to you sire, we can make this the Epic of which I dream"

(edit: being->begin)