Sacred Slaughter
The moon was a great marble lingering over the swirling mists of Mockingbird Marsh. Fireflies flittered to and fro, casting their yellow beacons upon the leaves and vines that hung from the skeletal trees that form a valiant wall around the clearing the bold swordsman dared to trod upon.
With all the clamor of a pin-drop and the grace of a tightrope walker, he danced lazily around my traps and tiger pits as if they were in their own isolated world.
That accursed crusader; a nameless battlemage with a holy relic. He who has become my nimble nemesis now ran closer and closer still unto my grand citadel in the lap of the Bloodstone Bluffs, shielded by swamps, serpents, and spells.
Unimpeded by mystical forces, he ran within sight of my keep. I stepped toward my front door and rested my hand on Hyroma's hilt. Hyroma, thine heretic blade, filled with the hatred of a hundred headless fools, could match the assassin's ancestral artifact and shield me from the sword's sacred light.
Then came the sound of a great hurricane unleashed from the swordsman's hilt as his sword sung through the air, severing my sole sentinel into two segments. Had a scream funded from the slain, I might be scared significantly less.
With a kick, the great doors flew open like the arms of a long-lost lover and the swordsman gazed mercilessly into my chamber. Silently, he drew that faithful katana and once more I felt the flame of his phosphorescent blade reaching out for me.
Hyroma, its hilt soaked in hatred, halved the intense heat of the man's enchanted steel. I squeezed my trusty sidekick and stepped forth, sliding out the sapphire blade and steeping the fortress in insufferable darkness.
I know not how many times he struck me, for my spirit had passed before my former shell slumped to the ground. I looked down one last time before I slipped into eternal suffering to see the pathetic swordsman relinquish his blade and reach for mine. I smiled as the searing pain overtook me, for the cycle had continued.
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