The white-haired man stood calmly in the crisp autumm breeze, feeling the caress of the Red Maiden's touch on his skin. His jacket, designed to ward off the coming winter's chill, kept him warm as the ties flapped gaily in the fall wind, the Maiden's breath.
He felt the back lengths of his blindfold tickle against the nape of his neck, bringing an ever-so-slight smile to his lips as his hand tightened infitesmally on his scythe. Soon...
A sudden gust knocked leaves off of the tree that arched over him; red, orange and yellow flecks of brilliance, the Maiden's garments, fluttered around him. His scythe became a blur, the wickedly curved blade whistling through the air, carving through the leaves as effortlessly as they did through the wind.
