Beneath the four moons of Yarwin, the gleam of silver hissed, whirling through the air into arcs. The light shone regality as it danced through the darkness, twisting and weaving, cutting and piercing, slashing and thrusting. The motion of the sword seemed to nearly embody the night, encompassing the moon and stars, the grass and winds, the seas and the earth.
Soon, the blade stilled, distorting into dust and fading away until all that was left was a dream and the thought of what if.
Altair sighed, covered in a thick sheen of sweat. He lifted the hilt of the blade. "I always thought Earth weapons were terrible, but this is even worse." He spat through a sharp gasp for air, lamenting the fate of the common longsword he wielded. "It would seem I knew nothing until now." He tossed the hilt aside into the rubble of the others and drew another from the rack, and once more, his dance began.
