Burning like a funeral pyre, his grave's long set; a date, branded upon his brow, reads: "Now." He feels it in the quaking recesses of his bones, the shiver—not of cowardice but anticipation. It shakes and shakes and shakes; his veins and heart and flesh all quake in lurid tune. It's real; it's now. The devil's come rapping upon his door, rasping out the score.
Steeled in both nature and composition the blade is drawn. Clattering and rattling the sheathe falls silent upon the floor.
AN: It's probably not a good idea to post so many short snippets. Sorry. I probably wont stop though.