The Deadly Moon
Down in the sewers of Manhattan, a tall male shape stood in the dim artificial light of street lamps coming from a manhole. His light fair hair and his pale shirtless figure were standing out against the darkness which bathed the open underground area. With a close look, one could admire the multitude of scars of various sizes that ran all over his ivory body. Cold rain was falling on him, but he didn't notice it. The control of his heavy breathing, his hard muscles, and the small gold spear, richly adorned with black Celtic engravings, was all he had in mind. He had been training for two hours, and was about to end his session.
He twirled slowly, almost lovingly, holding his weapon in his hand. He was staring right in front of him, as if gauging an invisible enemy. Then the fight began. The tip of his spear slashed the air as he spun around. Then he stabbed each made-up assailant who surrounded him, never once leaving an opening in his flawless guard. His movements were powerful, swift, and performed with such precision that they seemed to be a part of a ritual. In fact, he was so graceful he looked like he was executing a deadly dance for his victims. Finally, he jumped, thrusted his spear forward, landed on both his feet, and launched himself again in the air to execute an inconceivable triple forward somersault before landing with a roll. Of course, no human was able to do such a thing. But he wasn't of that kind he loathed. His pointy ears proved his belonging to the faerie realm. He was an elf, a race gifted with elegance, agility and vigorousness that no human would ever possess, no matter how much their infinite greed yearned for them.
Magic was another thing out of mankind reach. But nothing was easier for him than to extend his spear to its full size as he hit its bottom on the ground. After a very brief pause, he stood up and resumed his attacks with the same fury as before, not losing in speed despite the change of length of his weapon. To accomplish his last exercise, he concentrated his might in his arms, did a low lateral jump, and hit a puddle with such strength that the water gushed like a geyser. The elf made one turn around, then cut a single drop of water in half. Finally, he came to a resting regal stance, holding his spear horizontally in both is hands. The only sign of tiredness was the thin sheen of sweat on his powerful body.
He knew no warrior better than himself. No one was a match for him. His skills were unique. And he always placed them in the service of his people and his kingdom. For he was more than a simple soldier. He was royalty. Prince Nuada, Silverlance, son of King Balor. And tonight, his plan which he so longed for would be put into execution. He would return their land to his people, set them free of human dominion. They would pay for destroying the earth in their pathetic attempt to fill the hole that greed had burnt in their heart.