I wrote this completely on a whim. Though I realize that this is not always the most advisable way to write, I find that it works rather well as a short piece. Written for imagery. Enjoy!

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Nightblade

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The sky is clear, and the night is cold. Stars glitter in icy clarity like shards of broken crystal, spilled innumerable across the inky firmament. Sickle-shaped and razor-edged, the moon casts down a pure, pale radiance that bathes the landscape. Immense mountains cast their consuming shadows over the forest below. Beneath those shadowed boughs, a dirt path snakes its way through the trees. A soft wind stirs the branches, sending ripples of dark shadow and soft moonlight to dance on the hard-packed soil of the trail beneath.

Another shadow moves in the night, too steadily to be cast by a tree in the wind. Nearly invisible in loose black clothing, the figure makes its deliberate way through the forest. The trees shift in the wind and a beam of light suddenly illuminates the figure’s face. His skin is as pale as the moon above and his face is young. His eyes are dark and speak of trials that belie his age. A sword hangs at his hip, looking so natural there that it might as well be a part of him. He moves unhurriedly, his sandaled feet making no sound on the dirt of the trail. The path turns deeper into the woods and the sword-bearing man continues on his way.

The trail winds through a dense stand of trees, the branches closing thickly over his head like a leafy cathedral. The moon’s light is blocked completely and the darkness becomes nearly absolute. He slows his pace, watchful and on-guard. There are eyes within the shadows here, and he can feel their gaze as surely as he can feel the chill of the night air. His hand drifts to the hilt of his sword while his eyes bore into the gloom about him. Within the trees, objects are discernible only as darker or lighter blurs of black. Yet he senses a threat within those blurred silhouettes. He moves forward toward a clearing where the moonlight shines brightly down again.

He reaches the very edge of the clearing without incident. The woods recede, leaving a broad swath of verdant grass. With his hand still on the hilt of his sword, the swordsman takes the first step back into the moonlight,

The smallest of sounds, the barest movement of the air. The swordsman moves, reacting with speed beyond thought. His hand snaps out and suddenly he is holding a deadly-looking needle snatched cleanly from the air. He moves to the center of the clearing, just as unhurriedly as before. The moonlight shows his face clearly, and his expression has not changed in the slightest. His gaze is unreadable, though perhaps just the smallest bit colder.

He draws his sword in one smooth motion, the moonlight gleaming blue-silver on the steel held horizontally before him. Dispassionately, he surveys the tree line around him. Abruptly, there are men there. Clad in black as he is, they separate themselves from the shadows and step into the clearing. Twenty of them, all with drawn swords coated matte-black to facilitate their camouflage. The swordsman stands in the center of their ring, simply staring back at them. They move closer, blades raised threateningly.

The man’s foes are arrogant in revealing themselves, but they are confidant in their victory. They far outnumber their lone opponent, and surround him completely. No matter how skilled a man is, he cannot possibly evade twenty different attacks from twenty different directions. Yet suddenly, something gives them pause. Something in the aura of the man, the steadiness of his stance, and the coldness of his eyes. They halt their advance, wary of the man they encircle.

The swordsman’s eyes narrow. He turns in a slow circle, meeting the gaze of each enemy in turn. His guard never wavers, nor does his stare. But waver his foes do. Each man he locks eyes with can see the truth. Reflected in his black eyes is not hatred, not anger, but something greater. And what they see makes them tremble. Here is a man that they will never defeat, even if they came with a force of thousands. The wind blows hard for a moment, and their black swords tremble in their collective grasp.

For a brief moment, a ghost of a smile passes across the swordsman’s face. The moonlight that shines down upon him seems to linger for a moment, cloaking the edges of his figure with silver. It gleams with a cold light upon the blade of his raised sword. He shifts slightly and his foes fall back another step.

And he is upon them like the wind.

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Feedback is always appreciated. Before you say it, I am aware the pacing and flow is terrible in the beginning three paragraphs. I just can’t figure out a better way to phrase it. A follow-up is possible, but I'm not sure how well it might come out.

Until tomorrow, ja ne!

- Exspherius