Conversation At The Door

Grant pardon for asking, but,
Is this the straightest way to the sea?
I seek the truth, or beauty, or an elven queen.
All of which seem to be in short supply,
In these parts.

I've travelled many a league, on my quest
And you are the first I've come across
Who hasn't tried to cut my purse,
Run me through for savage pleasure,
Or eat my horse.

I see that you do not wish to speak, friend.
True, I am a stranger, perhaps that's why you hesitate.
See? I've sheathed my blade, and am no danger to you.
I have a few morsels left that we might share;
You look starved.

Sit quiet, then, while I manage a fire,
Or sing me your lay, if that be your pleasure.
I apologize for my state of mind,
But I was distracted some miles back,
By filthy brigands.

Tell me then, while I tend my wounds,
When did you stop at this door?
They say that these are the Paths of the Dead.
Looks like you'd have to be stark fey to enter
That noisome hole.

Ah, but this barbed point in my side screams,
And from the feel, I took a deep stroke, too.
Perhaps I will join you then, good knight, in the gloom.
My search, cut short as yours was,
By eternal rest.