The hunter stood in the ashen waste, just outside of Aughaire. He had only returned the previous night and had tried to rest, with the threat of war looming over his head he found it hard to relax, especially with what he saw in the old fortress.
Numbers, that counted above thousands, the mere thought of what he saw was enough to take his breath. He knew they would not empty the pits and deep hells of Carn Dum for a small settlement that lay in the wastes, but he knew deep down that they would still send a number of them here, and it would still overwhelm them if he was not able to find more men to fight.
Cynraede held the short swords firmly in his hands, feeling the leather covered hilts, feeling the weight not only in his hands, but through his body. They were extensions of himself as he shut his eyes, concentrating on the soft breeze that carefully brushed over the landscape. He loosed a smile as he began, feeling the soft breeze upon his bare chest.
The blades sliced and cut through the air as he danced barefoot in the wastes, his hands turning and spinning the blades as he moved, a torrent of steel that raged and sang a hushed song in the gentle wind. The markings were visible, the ones that did not taint him, but reminded him of what he used to be, what he did. He thought of Sybri's words to him, mulling them over, she had told him that he told himself over and over again..
"Those markings don't make you what you are.. You decide that in your actions, in your mind. So what are you? Man, or mouse?"
He had hammered those words into his mind long before she uttered them, his mind filled with question as his frustration grew. His blades slicing with ferocity now, rather than with tranquility and peace. His blades cut deep with hatred, anger and pain. He soon realized his mistake as he twirled a blade and it sliced deeply into his side, grunting with pain he continued on, though calming himself and entering the trance once more.
"Lead my hands to battle, teach my hands war.. Let me shield these people, let me be their light in this darkness. Let me bring fear to those that hide in the shadows, and deep places in the earth. Let me fill their hearts with dread for the coming dawn, let me be the first, and last thing they see."
Before he could finish, he heard soft footsteps behind him, a man. He stopped and turned his head to look over his shoulder, his eyes widening at the sight as he turned completely, taking a step back as he could not believe what his eyes had just seen.
There before him stood a man that had been freshly marked with black war paint, bearing similar markings that the hunter did who by now was tilting his head. The mans markings had reached just like his, stopping at the elbow, down the chest, abdomen, the same with the shoulders. The man placed a fist over his heart and spoke to the man who stood dripping with sweat.
"Once, we feared the markings of our enemies, they brought us darkness, took our hope. We thought surely no good could come of them, for the many who bore them could not handle the weight, or the few that did were rotted to the core and were no worse than their masters. You, stranger, have proven us wrong. You give our people hope, our children's eyes now glisten with hope of the near future, families will be saved, homes mended. We stand with you, we will fight for our homes, for our families. No longer does the black ink of Angmar invite fear into our hearts, not anymore. Instead we will fill their hearts with dread when they look upon us, they will weep. For the things they thought they created, the things they thought damned, have risen above them."
Cynraede could not help but smile and sheathed his blades carefully, reaching a hand out. The man grabbed it firmly, staring him in the eyes.
"To honor, to death."
Cynraede grinned widely and nodded.
"It would be an honor."
