Literature again...

I'm someone with 0 will power. Meaning I start things and never finish them. Most of my projects never even see the light of day. I'm also someone with lots and lots of ideas in my head, and the stuff below is the prologue to one of the many story-lines in my head right now. I really like this particular one. The prologue doesn't convey much about the story, except the magic mechanism. I'll post the back story later. I'm writing it right now, kinda done with it so anyways....

Prologue: The Man in the Dark

The man walked on.  Cloaked in black, he was as visible as a shadow at night, and the night was darker than usual. The sky was shrouded in clouds and though the full moon tried valiantly, it remained hidden behind them.

The man neared his destination. The wooden walls of the outpost seemed granite in the night. He pulled his cloak around him tighter. Calling on the years of his training, he embraced the cunning within and became one with the night. Moving between the shadows he quickly neared the main tent, put up in the middle of the camp. The tent of the rebel leader Arkanor. He lay sleeping within.

The man arose out of the shadows of Arkanor’s dresser.  The lamp he used to keep the night at bay, proving  to be his downfall. The man slit his throat,  but he was careless, or perhaps bored. As Arkanor fell from his bed, his outstretched hand knocked over his helm, which lay just beside him. The clattering sound of steel on hard earth bought the sentry ‘guards’ running. They saw the man with his bloody dagger, and their leader dead at his feet. They immediately raised the alarm. The mans face twisted into a grin.

The man summoned the rage within him and his body immediately set itself on fire. From head to toe, the man was alight. His dagger turned the reddest of red, and seemed to weep blood. The sentry guards were charred to cinders in a moment. The tent a moment later. Now the man lit up the whole camp like a bonfire,  drawing to him the soldiers like moths. Calling on the justice within, the man crystallized the light of the fire into an impenetrable barrier that stopped all swords in mid strike, those that did not melt in the horrendous heat of his body that is.

The man stood and watched as soldiers charged towards him and fell, burned beyond all recognition. Then the archers arrived. Summoning his will to survive, the man created around him a space of no-time. As the arrows came, they entered the no-time and fell to the ground. But the archers continued on. Getting bored of this entertainment too, the man called upon the determination within him and summoned the power of the Maelstrom. The water in the air around him solidified into daggers of ice that he threw with unerring accuracy, ripping the archers literally to shreds. The lines of the soldiers were decimated, and yet they charged on. The man was getting late. He had one more assignment to finish off in the night. Unleashing the power of his courage, the man called forth the tempest. From the sky, bolts of lightning crashed down on the remaining soldiers. They fell dead where they stood. The howling winds carried then off into the air, and threw them, like a petulant girl would her dolls, onto the ground. The camp lay deserted. The man rearranged his cloak. Looking deep within to find the feeling of emptiness, the man collapsed the space between where he was and where he needed to be. The man took one step and vanished, arriving at his second destination, a thousand miles away, within the blinking of an eye.

The man still wore the grin, but now he was even whistling to himself. He was happy with how things had gone. Not only had he done the job, he had had some fun as well. Whistling tunelessly to himself, the man pulled his cloak around himself and strolled down the street, searching for his next target.