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In a place terribly close to the sky
The strips of cloth move outward along the winds in several directions and soon it is that the eye sees the silent man in several locations at once. Each form moves and the movement is swift. Each form moves and the movements are distinct. Once it was that none could match the graceful speed of his movement. Now it is that the grace has vanished for wounded limbs must learn to move without the luxury of grace. The speed remains, however, and the brutal efficiency of his movement makes it a thing even more terrible than it had been. And the forms of the man move with this same ruthless speed. And in the diverse hands of the forms are weapons and these weapons are made ready.
ooc: No need for an immediate reply, Larry. Just getting that up while I have a bit of time. BTW - I've left you some notes on this elsewhere.
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