They were nothing but rumours, myths. They were tales told late at night, in the darkest of corners, by the best of the best. Stories of ghosts in the darkness, unstoppable killers, children of Death himself that moved without sound and vanished like a mirage, leaving a trail of destruction and despair. Their names were spoken in whispers, for they were the seven Swords of the infamous Shadow Clan.

They spoke of Striker, the Bolt of Heaven, an expert marksman known for his surprise attacks, relentless pursuits and perfect aim.

Flare, of the Golden Abyss, was a chemical genius and a pyromaniac, and was by far the most destructive of the Shadow Swords, feared by foe and ally alike.

They whispered of Wraith, of the Silent Rose, the unpredictable wielder of whips that could slice and capture as well as they could cripple and maim.

Blood, the Nightmare Blade, was a swordmaster without equal and carried a sword so large and sharp that it could supposedly cleave a building in two with one stroke.

They shuddered at the mention of Inferno, the Knight of Damnation, an invincible demon that systematically and ruthlessly slew his opponents with cold precision using a flaming, double-edged axe, longer than a man.

Vortex, of the Secret Sorrows, was an expert of infiltration, interrogation and torture, disposing of enemies and obstacles with her silver claws, hidden blades and terrifying laughter.

And they spoke reverently of Reaper, the Seeker of Souls, the invisible poison master that commanded serpents and shadows alike and could kill with merely a touch, glance or soft-spoken word.

They were legendary beings and death was inevitable once one was within their sights. Those that received their symbol of warning, a black wolf before a crescent moon, were dead within twenty four hours.

They were the Shadow Swords, Children of Death.