The pale man stepped wildly into the street, dodging between carts and pedestrians with an unbecoming agility. Especially considering if you got a look at his nearly wrinkled face. Clearly an older man, unsuspecting, he made his way through the streets, intent on his goal. His black cloak billowed out behind him with each jutting step. Every now and then the breeze would kick it open, revealing matte black steel armor, carved into skulls. No one would notice his black pauldroned armor, he was nearly a blur to them, like any other adventurer in a rush. He had a large, black, wrought iron staff on his back, a leather sack, and a bastard sword slung at his hip. (Along with various other small arms, shuriken, throwing knives, daggers, and a set of kusarigama concealed on his person.)
Mortus arrived at his destination, a tenement on the south west side of the large city. He looked up at the tall sand colored stone building. The man seared with irritation, he hated deserts, everything is the same color, much like the air, it is, dry. Approaching the front door, he removed his hood, revealing spindly lengths of pitch black hair, as one might see on an old corpse. He stood tall as he walked through the arched doorway, thin and standing at 6'2", he towered over most humans and many elves in this universe, and was composed mostly of muscle. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, feeling the cool air flow out from the darkened interior of the stone building. He spotted the man he was looking for.
The desert elf stepped up from his place. He knew what this meant, and was highly opposed to it. The desert sultan ran wildly up the stairs, careening into various citizens, throwing them down the stairs as he charged past them. The pale man didn't have time for this, as the sultan rounded the corner on the third floor, his assailant was standing directly in from of him, a dagger drawn. The sultan punched mortus, who though his nose broke, did not bleed. Mortus gave a defiant stare, heel kicked the sultan in the chest and he tumbled backwards through a window, onto a cart. Mortus dropped into the street, the sultan was crawling away, and turned to get up. Mortus was already upon him.
"You have been weighed on the scaled, it has been decided Lossenor, of Eladrin. Stand and fight, or take your death like a man." Mortus touched the elf's broken arm, it began to mend. The elf jumped to his feet and drew a falchion, a wide bladed scimitar, weighted toward the end. Mortus released a menacing chuckle. He stood to his full height and shed is cloak, revealing his armor. By now, the duel had been noticed, guards were on their way, and citizens were watching. "Forty five seconds" he thought to himself "I'll only need thirty." He removed the staff from his back, and as the end passed behind him an intricate damascus black steel blade protruded from the end, then curved to a scythe.
The sultan was out of his league, but his hubris did not allow him to back down. He charged, was parried instantly and was face down in the sand. Mortus spun and brought the tip of the blade down into his back. The sultan was impaled, bleeding out slowly in the sand. Death stood tall, replacing his blade in its sling, and it became a staff once again. He looked up, his pitch black eyes scanning the crowd that had grown around him and his opponent from the beginning. Mortus spoke quietly, muttering in the Black speech of his own creation, which he devised when locked away in his tomb. As he did, he dissolved into thick black smoke, and disappeared into the air, leaving a stupified crowd, silent in awe, waiting for the silence to break with a scream, the demon crouched nearby.
