|
Twin blades, singing, swinging - poetry in motion and scintillating to behold; the raven haired female spun through the crowd cutting through it, the air filled with thousands of pristine droplets of crimson liquid, a deep red sparkling mist. She was drenched with this blood and as she swirled in the air, it scattered from her long tresses into the faces of those few still remaining, blinding them so that they could no longer see the death dance before them. It was just that one moment of intense pain that they awaited and then the inevitable blackness that would come to consume them. It was clear to see in slow motion as she spun while dancing through the crowd, the blades bright white and forming a circle as they continued their movements regardless of what came in their way. And both inside and outside the circle were flashes of red as well as orange from the torches that lay on the floor and from the bodies that were now alight.
The extraordinary dance was accompanied with a song – sung in a sweet sensual dialect that the victims themselves would not have recognised but she performed not for them but the figure sitting on the roof of the building adjacent. He sat atop one of the long white pillars that looked down upon the killing fields, the expression on his face that of a person that was totally consumed by the spectacle before him. There must have been close to a hundred with their torches and their assorted crude weapons and now the last few were falling in front of him, those swords cutting through them like a knife through butter. The grass was no longer green but a bright red, bodies scattered all over but no matter how loud the screams were her flowing song was louder, blanketing them out with what was almost her own serene death-knell. And soon the last fell to his knees in front of her and she raised both her weapons in the air in triumph letting her last note reverberate through the field and up to the silent watcher. Who stood up and clapped loudly, bowing in respect to the divine dancer below and she responded with her own curtsey and with a shake of her black hair which sent more of the sticky blood raining down onto the grass below.
‘Think they’ll try that again my sweet?’ The man’s voice was unusual, almost grating as if it was echoing a number of times before leaving his mouth. His features were difficult to examine as he sat there atop the pillar due to the large luminous white moon directly behind him in the skies but it was obvious that he was wearing suitably dark clothes that helped him to blend into the background.
‘Are there still others?’ She asked the question simply, her arms folded in front of her still standing in the centre of all those countless bodies, both swords now sheathed. Her voice was still musical as if it was a natural quality of hers but it was also rather deep, revealing her origins from some of the further regions of Sytheria.
The man paused and began to answer but she could no longer hear his words – the scene suddenly turning static as if one was looking into a painting, the man’s cloak freezing in place even though it was being swept by the wind. She blinked and the image suddenly disappeared replaced by the floor of the training room
------
|
