by Gold Baron
The Gold Baron leaned heavily on the quivering blue sword. He was exhausted, and his entire body ached, wracked with arthritis and plain old age. How old was he?
He hoisted up the sword and stared at his reflection in the many facets of the polished hilt, which was arrayed like the points of a star. What he saw dismayed him; where most saw a kind, mid-fifties man with a well-preserved face and streaks of gray, his eyes were repulsed by a visage of a hard, pointed face with a scar across one side that bled incessantly and cold, black eyes that seemed to have no end. It was truly evil, so much that it would chill the heart of even the most stalwart. How much longer could he keep up this illusion? What was inside of him wouldn't be there for long. He was running out of time.
He set the sword point on the ground and leaned against it once more. The room was utterly black, save the blinding glow of the sword and the white aura around the Gold Baron, which seemed to falter and dim.
Now! The Gold Baron again hoisted the sword with apparent ease, its immense weight obvious as it ripped and grabbed at the air with a soft whoosh, and was silenced in the sheath on his back.
Yellow light streamed in through the broken windows and dust of the warehouse to lie on the floor. As the Gold Baron passed through a line of them, each would flicker with his passing, and in his wake held a murky red effect that would remind one of blood.