Athradien walked, slowly, down the street to an unknown destination. Every now and then, the moon light would touch the hilt of his sword and make it shine, the hilt shoing that the blade went vertically with his spine.

The one thing you really couldn't see, were the two, long daggers, which cross eachother while in sheathes at his lower back. His hair jerked around with the wind, his eyes playing a game of peek-a-boo with anyone who would look at him.

His breathing was calm and collected, but out of no where, he took a deep breath and sighed, knowing someone was following him... someone all too familiar. He turned his shoulder and looked at the exact place in the darkness they were at, then shook his head.

While he continued walking, his vocal cords began to resonate and a melancholy hymn began to play through the medium of his lips. The whistle was low and dreary, almost death like in the fact there weren't any fast notes, only slow and drawn out ones.

((His clothes look like this, bull completely black where it's red!))

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