Swiftly moving, the creature nods to the air. A shadow, silently floating upon invisible wings. A wolf stands beside it, howling into the cold night air. The rolling white plain below is ever silent, save for the occasional echo. A bloodlust filled the air between the two, neither seeing the other, but sensing the voids in the area. The wolf growled, its fangs glowing like blades in the night; the assassin's dagger falling.
Slowly, the shadow turned to the wolf, and withdrew a reaping scythe from its tattered cloak. The scythe was made of pure silver, save for the hilt, black as midnight. In fact, the gleam of the moon above the two was the only way you could make out the shape of the hilt. Whenever the moonlight struck it, the hilt glowed with an unworldly light. It had a deathly aura about it...Not the aura of the usual killer, for the scythe showed no sign of wear, no sign of blood.
The wolf lunged at the shadow, its fangs shredding the cloth surrounding it. The shadow moved, however, leaving the wolf in its illusion of the connecting fangs. When the beast saw as it landed that the cloth in its mouth had disappeared, it looked around blindly. It could not see the shadow descending down the slope of the snowy peak. Digging into the snow with its paw, the wolf snapped its large maw at the air, groping for a sign of the being, turned invisible once more. A gleam of the moonlight on the snow flashed in its eyes. Thinking that it was the deathly scythe again, the wolf jumped backwards, baring its teeth and growling. When the gleam dimmed and did not return, the wolf turned back and walked across the peak, satisfied with the thought of its "victory".
As the shadow moved down the slope, the scythe trailing behind it in its cloaked arm, it turned to watch events unfold on the mountainside. The snow fell upon a lone tree, burdening it with an icy package. The small but visible cold breath of a pack of mice scurrying into their homes entertained the shadow.
Pathetic creatures. It seemed to be whispered on the wind blowing across the mountain. The mice froze, looking around. Seeing nothing, they scurried on, the chill still in their spine.
Yes. Screeched the wind. Doom has come. As if summoned, the shadow floated to the ledge where the mice were moving. Raising its glorious scythe, the blade rose and fell in one demonic blow. Striking the mountain, a shadowy wave was emitted from the point at which the scythe touched the ground. The snow was darkened, and the mice fell to the ground, dead. The shadow turned back into the night.
Yes.
