Mathuinn

Steam rose up from Connors person. Although it was winter, and his close were damp with the morning due, sweat beaded down his clean shaven head, mixing in with the blue woad he always wore, causing it to run. The sun had just begun to rise, shrouded in a blanket of mourning mist giving a greyish blue tint to the world around it. Connors breathing was heavy, each breath of air burned his lungs, a mixture of sweat and woad stung his eyes, but he dare not blink. In his hands he clung to his mighty Claymore, stained with the greenish black blood of his enemy. On his back he bore a mighty hammer, which at the moment was just added weight he didn'