Atop a lonely rock does the assassin meditate, entranced by silence; all except the whir of constant visions shared eery night.
Shadows
would haunt him, indignant of his ferocity and might, instead warmth with every word given.
--As though once, he was loved...
The monk cast aside the ridiculous notion, love never once recalled nor desired. Days out at sea as a vagabond's hit man, a king's guard, then a monk for the majority of ten years.
All the ideals which stuck from the bald pacifists was simply: Fight.
--The rest, complete bullshit.
The grass strains beneath a weight, snaps in two to catch the assassin's undivided attention,
and a blade only inches from the throat of a young woman.
He stares down at the meager female, her features shocked at the sudden appearance of the blade, sharp to the touch, ready to cut her neck in two. Her answer would be a good one to stop the blade now.
"State your business."