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[Martin Willow]

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A powerful samurai warrior dismounted from his steed, his eyes focused on the pitch black hole that stood gaping before him. This cavern was known in his village for its evil taint. Daemons and other spawn of evil lurked within, killing or turning anyone who entered. Few had escaped; fewer still had survived the life-draining wounds they had suffered. The place had claimed the lives of many of the bravest men of the samurai’s village.

He had trained long for what he was about to do. Both his mind and his body were in their prime, with years of difficult training having molded them into a perfect combination of lightning quick reflexes and stunning skill with a blade. His armor had been custom-made to fit his person, enhancing his strengths and protecting him as no other armor could. His sword, which he handled as though it were an extension of his own being, was crafted long ago for his grandfather, and had been sharpened and enhanced by the best metal worker in the village.

Taking a deep breath, the warrior approached and then entered the cavern. Inside he met first with the undead, the weakest of which fairly crumbled before his very presence, the strongest of which fell before his awesome blade, their own attacks barely scratching the armor of the samurai, ritualistic symbols emblazoned on it glowing as they lent their arcane power to the man’s own strength.

Reaching the next level of the cavern, a wake of undead lying in pieces behind him, the elements came to life before the samurai, mimicking his human form and producing physical bodies for themselves. Replacing his grandfather’s sword in its sheath, the samurai drew forth a second sword, and proceeded to lay waste to the elements before him. An embodiment of fire extinguished itself as his sword cut through it. A water elemental evaporated as he drove his sword deep into its aquatic body. The wind chilled and calmed as the samurai slew its evil, physical presence with his sword. A blood red figure, composed from the blood of the warriors who had preceded the powerful samurai, exploded in a burst of crimson has the samurai buried his sword within it.

The final level of the caverns swarmed with spawn of evil, minor daemons, imps and other hell spawn painting the ground with whatever passed for their blood as the samurai cut through them, his grandfather’s powerful sword ripping their bodies apart. Finally, the last imp settled to the floor, the last breath of air escaping its lips as it died. Only the samurai, his sword soaked in blood, and the powerful daemon who was responsible for the taint of the cavern, remained.

The daemon’s red eyes blazed with the anger of seeing all of his fallen minions. His claws flexed open as shut, his breath a red mist each time he exhaled. Arcane symbols cut into his arms, legs, and chest, glowed as he called upon all his powers, his rage and blood lust contained only by the inevitable, evil need for a dramatic moment before battle was joined.

The samurai, in contrast, was a sea of calm. His breathing slow and steady, his sword unwavering, his vision was clear, with his goal in sight. He thought back to all his father and grandfather had taught him, of all the philosophies behind being a samurai, that made one truly an just and honorable person. With these images in his mind, the samurai slapped his sword to his side, its blood soaked blade pointing behind him, and stood to his full height, bending at the hip then, and bowing deeply.

“I honor you.” He said, his eyes focused on the ground.

In the single moment that the samurai’s guard was down, the powerful daemon swooped forward, seizing the man in his claws and raising him into the air. With an anticlimactic move, the daemon tore the samurai in two, hurling the pieces to opposing walls. The limbs, a powerful machine of battle when together, could manage nothing more than a powerful racket as they slammed into the walls in unison and settled at the peak of a mountain of similarly powerful, and equally dismembered bodies.

“Why do they always say that?” the daemon mused to himself, using the finely crafted sword to pick his teeth as he retreated into his lair.
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Grand Paladin of THG