TedGrendelis

She walks slowly through the underbrush, her body low and feet leaving no trace upon the leaf littered ground. All that marks her passage is the slightly shifting of the bushes as if a soft breeze had blown through. Her progress is slow and laborious, sweat coating her body from hours of moving quietly and tracking her target through the woods. Not for the first time her eyes dart to the bow in her hands, too heavy by far for her tastes with a grip covered in leather older even than her grandfather's grandfather. A shift out of the corner of her eye sends a jolt through her body, a near decade of training kicking in as she rises smoothly drawing one of the two black tipped arrows at her belt and nocking it in a single well practiced motion, only to find that the string could not be drawn back. Her heart hammers in her ears but she watches as the thin rays of the rising sun shining through the thick canopy cause the shadows to move. A deep breath to steady herself is all she allows

She exists in darkness, her consciousness split into a failing tapestry a thousand patches large all held together by thin frayed strings. She does not feel pain, she barely feels at all, and so just floats a thousand images swirling around and within her through the eyes born of what was left of her body. Something shifts and some instinct within her tells her that the eyes will soon close dropping into blissful oblivion, at least for a time. A changing of the light jolts her mind from the fog and drowsiness and for a second she struggles to understand what's happening but then she feels the warmth on skin that is hers yet not. She drags her now alert mind toward the thin patch where the feeling originates desperately trying to draw herself closer to that warmth. For a moment her mind goes blank and then she feels things again. The feelings nearly overwhelm her as she settles in a body that is hers yet not, the soft grass beneath her clawed feet, the gentle brush of wind across

You push through the last of the crumbling door and stumble as your foot hits the uneven flagstones on the other side. Shaking yourself you look up too see a room filled with broken furniture and bodies, the walls covered in long dried blood and twisting glowing script that makes your eyes tingle. Your eyes dart around quickly looking for anything of value and it’s on your fourth quick glace around the softly glowing room that you notice it, a sword stands against the wall next to a long dried corpse in fine robes. You step towards it almost without thinking and you find yourself unable to look away. All along the blade words in a language you don’t understand appear to be etching themselves into the bronze colored metal before rapidly disappearing. You grip your sword and charge at the gnashing ball of fur and teeth ignoring the weeping of the mourning and dying around you. A roar rises from your throat and you leap onto it’s back stabbing down with all your strength. You walk

I am not a blade of Gods, Kings, or great Heroes. No. I am the blade of the farmer, the seamstress, the shepherd, and the common soldier who take up the blade, not to conquer or win great valor, but to protect those who they cherish dearly or who cannot protect themselves. I am a blade of no renown, whose names and deeds are fated to be washed away by the endless flow of time. But I will not falter in the purpose given to me so long ago by a tired, old man who wished to protect those who fate so often cruelly forgets. Take me in hand so that you may protect those you love. Take me in hand so that you may protect those who cannot protect themselves. Take me in hand and show that the common man will not be so easily bowed to the whims of fate.