Cloaked in Death
A gesture began as fingers stretched forward. The palm faced outward, slow and steady.
Faint light crept through the lines carved into his flesh, signs of a deal made long ago. A rhythm passed through the ink - one pulse, another - then sudden brightness swelled. Darkness pooled above his hand, drawn by energy rising from within.
A shape began to form out of the blackness, piece by piece. His weapon took its place without sound.
A stretch of black stone took shape slowly, smooth under the dim light. Following that came the edge - a sweep of metal mirroring the night sky's curve, sharp but graceful in its form. Near where the pole met handhold, strands thinner than hair reached out, almost ghostlike in their delicacy. These held small red blades, slender as pins yet forged like tiny weapons, half a foot each in span.
Up above, they drifted near his shape like weightless things.
Something fragile held them fast - just breath, maybe, or memory.
