Harken the roar of the great fog door. Savor the mural of leering sunset past three large windows with sharp arcs. The marble floor is immaculate in its gloss, reflecting enough of the world above its polished surface.

Rise up, armored host in meditation. Meet the visitor in tattered grey. Bring aloft the Far-Eastern blade of incredible length once in a nap on the lap near the knees. Let the newcomer spend precious seconds to liberate and lift up their own steel. Commit to a steadfast stance, both gents. Proud chests and mellow shoulders. Legs and elbows apart. Hilt secured in each grip. Sharp steel is before each person, preferably front right. Bloodthirsty tips are facing the high ceiling.

Eyes of meadow green peer without judgment upon the iron mask of the host towering twice a man. Such attire meant to ward off harm of blade and blunt does not seem to belong in this kingdom. Perhaps it is part of a culture in a distant nation from whence he came, this lordly loner bearing a long limb of laceration.
 
On this grand hall fit for a grand ball, two shall partake a dance, fancy and fierce. The host, dressed in fashionable plates, and the visitor, veiled in ash-blessed hood and cloak fitting a vagabond, take careful steps forward. Leap a forward stride! Exact a mighty swing that can behead a poor soul! Sing a crisp clang, furious fangs!

Before sultry sunset and above marvelous marble, warriors will waltz.