He places his sword into its sheath and runs strait at the army that was in perfect formation. They thrust there spears forward and they readied there blades. Swift knew they would do so but he had already thought this out he placed his hand on the handle of his sheathed sword but did not draw it. He was thirty feet from the spears. Twenty feet, ten feet, five feet. Instead of blocking the spears he bucked and slid beneath them. he drew his sword and cut three warriors in thirds. His blade was the ultimate herald of doom he was known as the god of death that protected the weak and helpless. Why? No one knew. But if no one cared at the moment, they were to busy trying to live.
His movements were beautiful and his form perfect. His swings came true, his stabs always found there mark, his slash constantly maimed. There was no where and no one that was safe from his onslaught. His eyes were those of a warrior that knew he could die but he wanted to hold his daughter, kiss his wife, spar with his rival, and he wanted to talk with the village more. These things drove him into a rage of death. And naught but death followed him.