Quiet as a falling flake, the man was. He did not arrive, for that was what the living did. Each of his eyes wandered over the landscape, examining every cloud, every tree, every flake of frozen moisture as it were. Admiring in his silence, the world which he no longer had a piece of. Instead, now the world had a piece of him. A broken picture, a tattered soul, he stood as the wind tried it's might at ripping him in two. However, it did little more than prove to be a play thing for the man's long cloak of navy. It wisped, it danced, flicked and swayed in the gusts, it licked the snow that it touched, and even gathered a few flakes for itself. For just a man, he was certainly under dressed, and under equipped for such altitude but of course he was not just a man. He was nor a man, nor just, he was little more than a figment of an imagination, a feeling, an emotion, wrapped so carefully that it was not allowed to follow. The practical waste of a soul which had made it to a better place, for in heaven, there was no room for such a deep sorrow. Life, had been stripped from this soul before it could truly have lived it, but after it had grown accustom to the taste of the finer things. Love, desire, hate, anger, excitement, promise. These things, had been his for a day, for a week, for time, however, it was not long before he was wrapped in fine cloth, laid in a tomb, and left to join the earth once more.
This man, bore long hair, it mocked the snow, flicking in unison with his cloak, as the wind demanded. Endeavoring the cold, as if he needed to, he stood atop a roof. Steely boots clinging powerfully to it's broken surface. It was a strange thing, that such a weak structure could let such a being find retreat. To eyes that had seen his form, they would instantly recognize the cold features, his face, unmarked by emotion. Free of care, or desire. It bore little more than a will to be, to observe, for there was little left to do. Those eyes of granite wandered as his mind did, examining the world, as he examined his thoughts on them. They drifted to one of his bandaged hands, and slowly followed one of the bandages up the arm, which was revealed by that enslaved but determined cloak. These bandages, ran from fingertip, all to his shoulder, where they seemed to completely coat the skin, every inch of visible flesh was now nothing of the sort, instead, it was but soil for a field of uncolored material.
On his hip, hung two things. One of which, was claimed by something else entirely. The first, was a garment. Long pants, which were perhaps an inch or two too wide in the waist for this creature. They were black, dark as a night without star or moon. Creased from hem to hem, they resembled an orient samurai's choice, even so much as tied to his hips by a deep gray rope, in a large bow just under where the man's belly button should have been. Upon this rope, was something strung. Around it's diameter, there was something sharp. Clinging delicately, it boasted power, finesse, and the height of melee weaponry in the western world. It was but a sheath, that held the true work of art. Though designed with many an ornate carving, the wooden scabbard held within, the Damascus blade. A lost art of folding steel upon itself countless times to create a weapon that boasted the title of indestructible. Of course, this was an exaggeration, however, in it's time, one could see easily where it got the title. This weapon, was none other, than a nodachi.
If only a passerby had seen this setting, this being, and this silence, they would hear the song. A song, of sorrow.
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