Blocking and dodging with every fibre of his being, Ohrn searched for an opening in the undead's guard, but all that he saw were feints waiting to happen, traps, every and all of them, sparks flew, flew and flew into a dazzling show of fireworks, it was wonder how the elder's blade was yet to be damaged.
Ourlon's pale, chipped sword was dreadfully efficient, there was no doubt about it, it was tightly linked to his arts and himself, forged in the depths of the undead forces, using countless techniques and arts, both ancient and new, it was a masterpiece, a magnificent arm, eclipse by its wielder's proficiency.
