Sarmuth Sun Aug 28, 2011 9:18 pmTwin blades sliced through the cool night air in a dance older then the steel that now caught the light of the moon through the trees. A lone figure was there in the wilderness, moving to a rhythm only he heard. It was a dance he preferred alone, for it helped to center the tortured soul within, as well as prepare the body for the next inevitable battle. Though he was not truly alone, there were creatures there with him, however they kept their distance not wishing to feel the hot steel slice through their flesh or to become the man’s next meal. However, they were there nonetheless, some drawn out of curiosity, some drawn by some odd kindredship. However, they all feared the man.
He had lost track of how many times he had performed this ritual over the years; in fact, time had no meaning to him anymore. He hated what the world had become, so he held onto the past and let the world leave him behind. That was why he was out here; he had no use for the modern world. He wished for a simpler time when one could look into the eyes of his foe as the life drained out of them after a blade cleaved their body. When strength and honor were proven on the field of battle, tales were told of exploits, true, and often times exaggerated over a hot fire and a deep mug. The modern world where you could kill someone without even seeing them, with a press of a button, or a pull of a trigger, there was no honor in this, no challenge. So he let time pass, preferring to be a relic of a time long ago.
Nevertheless, even a relic cannot avoid the passage of time and the shifting of the winds, and shift they did. There was a scent there, a familiar one, one that could draw him out of his wilderness home. Not his maker, no that one was unknown, never revealing itself to the man, abandoning him to the wildness in hopes he would grow strong and survive as many of his kind have done. However, the maker never returned when the man survived, and even though he survived, he had become lost, feral. The one, whose scent was on the wind, had found him, saved him from falling to the Beast, for reasons he did not know, but he did owe her for it.
A slight smile formed on the face of the man as the dance ended and the blades returned to their home across his back. Perhaps she would call on him, or perhaps he should find her, for it had been a while since he last paid his respects. A dark mist enveloped the man, darker than a moonless night; it closed about the human form for an instant. Then it was gone, blown away on the wind, and so was the man. In his place a large wolf, fur as black as the departed mist and gleaming golden eyes now stood, the same smile now implanted on the beasts maw. Whatever happened, now that she had returned once more, he knew one thing, the one thing that always happened when he was in her employ. It was going to be fun.
He had lost track of how many times he had performed this ritual over the years; in fact, time had no meaning to him anymore. He hated what the world had become, so he held onto the past and let the world leave him behind. That was why he was out here; he had no use for the modern world. He wished for a simpler time when one could look into the eyes of his foe as the life drained out of them after a blade cleaved their body. When strength and honor were proven on the field of battle, tales were told of exploits, true, and often times exaggerated over a hot fire and a deep mug. The modern world where you could kill someone without even seeing them, with a press of a button, or a pull of a trigger, there was no honor in this, no challenge. So he let time pass, preferring to be a relic of a time long ago.
Nevertheless, even a relic cannot avoid the passage of time and the shifting of the winds, and shift they did. There was a scent there, a familiar one, one that could draw him out of his wilderness home. Not his maker, no that one was unknown, never revealing itself to the man, abandoning him to the wildness in hopes he would grow strong and survive as many of his kind have done. However, the maker never returned when the man survived, and even though he survived, he had become lost, feral. The one, whose scent was on the wind, had found him, saved him from falling to the Beast, for reasons he did not know, but he did owe her for it.
A slight smile formed on the face of the man as the dance ended and the blades returned to their home across his back. Perhaps she would call on him, or perhaps he should find her, for it had been a while since he last paid his respects. A dark mist enveloped the man, darker than a moonless night; it closed about the human form for an instant. Then it was gone, blown away on the wind, and so was the man. In his place a large wolf, fur as black as the departed mist and gleaming golden eyes now stood, the same smile now implanted on the beasts maw. Whatever happened, now that she had returned once more, he knew one thing, the one thing that always happened when he was in her employ. It was going to be fun.
