I have walked these lands for countless days upon innumerable nights. The faces of the enemies I have slain run together like paint on a canvass in a rainstorm. The sword sharp.
I have left the evidence of my travels in the brush strokes of red that trace a myriad of characters across the landscape, all standing for the same word; death. It is not all the blood of my enemies, no, plenty of my own have I left, this is my writ of honor, drawn from the blood that I have shed. This sword is sharp.
The direction in which I travel is a meaningless as the foes who lay bloodies and broken in my wake, from the mightiest of empires to the most insignificant of villages, they all die the same and my feet continue to move, one before the other. They would call me weak, for I stand alone and I am alone, but the word reduces to a mangled cry as lung and spine are severed in severed in one swift stroke. They would underestimate me, wishing to learn for themselves how sharp the sword is. All fools and noobs.
All dead fools.
I walk this Earth a drifting specter with a red stained sword, but fresh coats await at every step to quench it's thirst.
My sword is sharp
He who walks the fire breathes