The rain splashed off the face of Terrax the Warlord. It didn't matter to him. He liked the rain, and everything about it. It provided a challenge in the marching, it gave him an adversary that he couldn't just slay and be done with. He smiled went back into the leader's tent.
"Sir," exclaimed a small, red furred rat. "Has the rain let up yet?"
Terrax looked down at him. "No, it's still pouring as hard as yesterday."
"That's gonna make marching a hell of a lot of fun." said the art slyly, hoping that the warlord would pick up his hint the way it was intended. If he didn't pick it up, then what he said was a waste of breath. If the warlord took it the wrong way, he would kill him.
Terrax looked the little rat in the eye, saying, "Are you implying that we slow our march, Aftaraff?"
The fox was on to him. "Why, no Sir." said Aftaraff, swallowing a lump in his throat that had formed mysteriously.
"Good." said Terrax. "You know how I hate those slow marches." He turned away. Aftaraff swallowed again. The large fox turned away. He was a normal red fox, but he was tall, strong, and vicious. Across his right forearm was a black blade, of solid metal, strapped there by a snakeskin band. across his back he wore a bandolier, behind which was a sword and a heavy iron hammer. The warlord turned suddenly.
"Did I ever tell you how I came by this blade?" said the warlord, admiring the black metal weapon strapped to his arm.
"No, sir." said the rat.
"Some say that it was a shooting star, which fell into the earth. Others say that it was Lucifer being cast down from heaven. Either way, there was a bubbling black pond of this metal." He said. Lifting his arm, he picked up a sword that had been left in the corner. He sliced the blade in two with a quick, downward motion. "This metal is virtually unbreakable." he said, again admiring it's fine black shine. "perfect in battle."
"And when shall we go into battle, sir."
"Not yet," He looked at the little rat and grinned, showing rows of white teeth, savagely sharpened to a sword's razor edge. "Leave now. Report to me the number of supplies."
"Yes, sir."
Alone in his tent, the warlord wielded his hammer, doing fencing moves with it as easily as any expert could do with a sword. He whirled and spun, ducked and slammed the mallet into the ground. He stopped for a breath, taking it back and restoring it to his sheathe. "Soon I'll get you, my brother." he said. He turned and went into his tent for the night's rest.