running at me full force a figure with killing blade makes a pass anger seeping from the eyes ground thunders beneath feet sweat touches lip steam left behind the thrust his life liquids drip deadly metal exits still cutting organs like butter victory winds pick up there is no celebration except flinging his blood off my blade
The Work of the Sword on the Plane of Illusion is ever the Joy of the Strong. There is but one stipulation: Go Down Fighting, and Die with the Honor with which you have Lived, whether you fall at the hands of a mortal enemy, or into the inevitable clutches of Death Herself.
