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The Dark Silhouette
jandercoop
26 Jun 2004
Standing there, silhouetted against a pale full moon, he waited. His features were slim and sharp, long ears could be seen jutting from his thin face. With ultimate patience, he waited. When looked directly in the eyes, you saw a being full of turmoil; pain; suffering. His eyes gleamed bright violet, but were filled with the most intense fire. His facial features were chiseled from stone, like the marble statues of Michaelangelo, but frailer than the humans he sculpted.
The skin that you could see was blacker than coal, and gleamed in the pale moon's shine. A flowing sheepskin cape folded underneath the hood of his coat fell to his calves, where it was white with frost. Just past the cape, if you looked from the behind, you could make out two swords, one shimmering in a cold frost. He was shifting from foot to foot, he was growing impatient.
Noise to the east brought him from the dream land he was in, and his elven face darted in that direction like a sparrow taking flight. His brow tightened over his nose and he stilled his hoarse breathing. Screams erupted in the air, and his eyes darted in every direction. Beads of sweat rolled down from his brow, but froze before they passed the eyes as he heard banshee-like screams.
The hairs of his back stood straight, and his body moved to the side before he asked it to. If you were standing behind the black elf, you could see an axe thud to the ground, with the elf just to the side of it.
The ranger cried out, and swung his blades like an artist would paint his canvas. Deadly the were, but beautiful was the sight. The elf pranced about creating streams of red that spurt in every direction. A sanguine dance, it was.
The elf then left his waiting spot, now just a red puddle in the wastes of a cold, deadly tundra.
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