The man in grey robes stood in the meadow, petals blowing around him, his clothes billowing. His right hand held the hilt of a sword, all but buried inside his layered robes. Grim circled him, Beowolves, Ursas, and a Nevermore circling above. His left hand stole into his robes and caressed the sheathe of his blade. The man then leaned toward, his left leg balanced on the toes extended behind him. His right leg was bent in front of him, almost giving him the look of one kneeling. He breathed deep, gathering his focus, feeling the electricity in the air, and the strength coursing through his sheathe. He held his breath for a few seconds, planning his attacks and letting his high frequency blade charge with Dust.
At last he breathed out and dashed forward, aiming for a large Ursa on the inner edge of the ragged ring of Grim. He leaped forward and drew his sword in a flash of fire, slicing through the Ursa and a crowd of Beowolves on the other side. As he hit the ground outside the ring, he sheathed his blade and twisted, facing the now stampeding horde. He grinned from within the folds of his good and unsheathed, slicing the arm from a Beowolf to his left. He twisted, bringing the blade around to decapitate another Beowolf behind him. The mass of wolves leaped in a pile, snarling and growling. The man rolled out of the pile, after quickly resheathing his blade. As he came to his feet just a foot from the writhing mass of claws and teeth, he gripped the hilt of his sword his right hand shaking, his back hunched. As the beowolves recovered, he unsheathed, sending out a flash of fire through the Grim.
He resheathed again, feeling the rumble of an Ursa charging towards him from behind, roaring in rage. The man spun, drawing this blade in an upward strike, catching the Ursa under the jaw with the bottom of the hilt. As the Ursa recoiled from the strike the man stepped forward and cut downward, removing the Ursa's arm. Blood sprayed from the raw wound, the Ursa roared in pain, and the man twirled under the rain of blood, slicing into its exposed side. As the Ursa fell, the man wiped the blood from his blade on his robes and resheathed, scanning the area. A few Ursas, a scattering of Beowolves and the nevermore remained. The man smiled within his hood again, gripped his sword, and spoke for the first time. "13 strikes. Begin."
He sprinted ahead, aiming for a pair of Ursa's, his hand clutching the hilt of his blade in an iron grip, power coursing through it. As he reached the first Ursa he unsheathed, sweeping the blade wide across its stomach, the area around the wound igniting into flames from the power of the sword. As he completed his strike, the man turned, twirling the blade in his hand, holding it upside down as he rushed the second Ursa. He brought the blade up in a diagonal arc, cutting the Ursa in two. He leapt at the upper half, knocking it to the ground. As it made contact he leapt again, twirling his blade back to regular grip. He hit the ground running to the remaining pack of Beowolves and danced among them, reducing them to nothing in four clean strikes. As the wolves fell, he turned his attention to the two remaining Ursas. He dashed at one and slid between its legs as it swung at him with it's fearsome claws. The man cut twice at the ursa's legs, severing them and immediately scrambled to his feet, running at the remaining ursa. He jumped toward, almost colliding with the ursa, and struck out thrice, severing both arms and the fiend's head. He kicked off the ursas torso with both feet, back flipping on to the ground. He saw the Ursa's head spinning in the air, falling to the ground like an autumn leaf. He kicked it straight up, sending it sailing into the Nevermore circling above.
The Nevermore screetched in anger at the unexpected attack, and nosedived at the man in grey robes. The man crouched low, his left leg extended back, his right leg almost kneeling. He held his blade with both hands, the sword parrallel with his leg. The Nevermore pulled up within a few feet of the man, flapping its wings and lashing out with its gruesome talons. Time slowed as the man made his final attack.
The talons were within inches of tearing him to ribbons before he reacted. With lightning speed he cut upward, slicing off the fiend's right talon. He twisted around and brought the blade up and over his head, bringing it down to sever the left talon. He pivoted backwards, cutting across the Nevermore's stomach, and brought the blade up once more for a final downward strike, neatly dividing the nevermore in two. As the the two halves of the bird fell, he straightened, wiping the blade across the folds of his robes before sheathing it with a flourish, all in one fluid motion. He glanced around, examining the ruin about him.
He sighed in sadness, and spoke morosely "Only twelve strikes after all. Oh well."