The cheeseman

He fought in a line. Not of men, as in battle, but of sand. Ílliam had drawn a line through Daernholm's training yard, and told him to practice his forms as he traveled back and forth across it.

And so he did. Enarë danced slowly down the line one way--his sword turning in his hands like a leaf on the wind and striking like a lightning bolt--and back the other way--his blade twirling like a maelstrom at sea and splitting the air like thunder.

There was more than one way he trained, however. Enarë also trained with the wind. On days where it blew strongly across the fields outside the fortress, he would go out and dance the same direction as the wind. East, South, West, North, it mattered not. He thrust and struck where the wind pointed him. He moved with the wind. Or, he thought, his eyes closed, his body wet with rain, does the wind move with me?

It seemed that way, sometimes. Especially during more violent gusts and storms, he always moved just ahead of where the winds turned and twisted, pulling at his hair even as the Taranis the Thunderer pulled at the titanic clouds far above Enarë's head.

The wind sang to him, to his blade, and he sang back. A song of violence, of power, of lightning arcing across the infinite sky and striking fear into the mortal hearts of Man.