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My first are raven plumes dipped deep in inky well,

and shades of buried tombs concealed by darkest spell.

The caves of ancient things whose shadows bare no light,

and blood of fallen kings when seen spilt in the night.

 

My second, written runes, so many meanings tell,

and folded word cocoons, some hint of perfume smell.

Or gaudy-shiny rings that keep flesh free from plight,

a weave wore by past kings when vested in their might.

 

My whole, a threat that looms, if any of it tells,

to one a certain doom and one this secret fell.

A consequence it brings, should viewed by other's sight,

a bounty fit for kings to free this thing held tight.