Ronin of the Sundered.

[gbbishop]

A figure stood just inside the Gate, darkened by the silhouettes of sleeping giants. The sun had long since slipped below the towering horizon. Long before that the figure had lost sight of his reason for living.

Time had past and everything still felt, well, wrong. Madragonahan sat in front of the large desk frowning at where Kilinar used to sit and steward the cleavers. This was how he spent his days. Well, when he was not working the forms or sparring, which he did to take his mind off this, the sitting and waiting. He had yet to spar today, partners were becoming hard to find. It seemed that with out their steward the Cleavers were vanishing one after the other.

For a moment his vision flashed the white hot of fires in a deep in a forge. When his vision returned he found himself standing. He stood staring at the chair that had, very recently, been holding his weight. The chair lay heaped in the corner of the room, well most of it. What was left of it, only slightly resembled the furnishing it had been moments before.

Madragonahan frowned down at it as if it was at fault. Then he turned, leaving the room… and the chair in silence.