Nalan Mithrander, Beloved...

The blood-drenched soil greatly accepted the cleansing fall of rain. It came down in sheets, the winds blowing icy drops into his face. The rain dripped from his acrimonious dark brown hair, streaming down his pallid features and off his sharp chin. A trivial drop of blood ran from his lower lip and mixed with the rain streaming down his face. His gray cloak billowed in the harsh evening wind. Its chaotic flow in the dismal breeze mimicked the swirling gloom above. Lightning webbed across the heavens, reflecting its light off his eerie green eyes. He stared, unblinking, at the horizon. He resumed his slow march south, leaving behind those that sought to stop his advance. Their eyes stared blankly at the madness of the sky. Their faces were masks of death, given to them by this wanderer. Thunder crashed above and the earth quaked in fear of its ferocity. Like a dog to its master, the storm above followed the wanderer. Time elapsed, but seemingly endless night persisted. The chaotic nature of the storm had doubled in intensity as the wanderer approached a village in his path. His eyes remained ajar, staring at the village. Around its perimeter, hundreds of men stood in formation, raising their glaives to the uncaring heavens. They began praying to their inconsequential gods for victory. Even if their gods could hear them, they .knew better than to interfere with this wanderer. Their chanting grew louder as the wanderer stopped just outside one-hundred yards away from them. Orders began sounding out across the distance, hardly audible over the torrential rains and the thunder. This militia’s number was of no consequence to the wanderer, but it stood at around three-hundred strong. The man in gray recommenced his advance. As he neared the battalion, a large cry rang out from the commander and dozens of arrows soared from their front rank. They came upon the wanderer like the downpour; however, not a single arrow marred his flesh. His cloak was torn like a rag by the razor-sharp arrows, but fate apparently favored the wanderer. He did not move to defend against the assault. He was beyond it. “Charge!” the commander shouted; fear rang in his voice. With a slight hesitation, the first waive of opposition ran shouting a loud, somber battle cry. “Death to the Mithral Reaver!” they yelled, readying their swords as they closed around him. With a sudden motion from within his billowing cloak, the Mithral Reaver drew a blade and sent it in an arc before him. At the sight of the sword, the earth splintered about him and an intense gust flared from his position. Silence descended a nonce after he extracted his sword from his sheath. The stillness ended as the soldiers around him buckled, their bodies severed by an unseen force. The wanderer restarted his march as the men around him went to wrack and ruin; heads removed from necks and abdomens segmented in two. Blood flowed generously into the soil and the wanderer’s boots sloshed through it. He held his arcane sword to his side and the rain washed it clean of blood. Spearmen began advancing the Mithral Reaver and began circling about him, surrounding him as he marched. As they began closing in on him, the gray cloak furled and he moved with inhuman speed, blurring as he pierced into the rank of spearmen behind him. The others watched in horror as this man whirled his blade about him like a maelstrom and the would-be attackers greeted death in unimaginable ways. Blood splattered nearby soldiers and their eyes went wide with terror, but it was short lived as the wanderer gave them the gift of death as well. The spearman that stood before him before charged forward with weapons bore. The cloak soared above their spears and fell out of vision. Worry grasped their hearts and the wanderer swung his blade from behind them. The ground at their feet crumbled and their bodies were rended asunder by his mysterious attack. The commander of the militia stared at the carnage and his body trembled with dread. The remainder of his number now ran for the village, but the gray cloak darted from fleeing soldier to fleeing soldier, leaving corpses in its wake. He watched it all, frozen by this unreal event taking place before his eyes. Finally, the wanderer’s form appeared before the commander, who fell to his knees in shock. The Mithral Reaver’s green eyes glowed with an unholy light as he raised his rune-littered blade to the unrelenting chaos above. The commander saw no emotion on this man’s face, if he even dared call him a man. As he tried to plead for mercy, the blade fell.