Kismet

The scream of a blade as it slid out of its sheath; the ripple of cloth as he danced behind his opponents, the satisfying shlick as their detached head fell to the floor, leaving blood spurting. These were all the norm in the wake of Kismet.

He thrusted and retreated, his sword a blur of steel, and the trees awoke from their deep slumber to watch him. He weaved behind a particularly grand oak, stopping to murmur, "Nothing personal, kid," and then sliced a clean chunk out of its bark. Sliding his sword back into its sheath, he stepped back.

"Hm, sounds too forced," he pondered to himself. He shook his head, pulled out his sword again, and sliced into the tree once more, deepening the groove he had made earlier. This time, instead of saying something, he let out a chuckle.

No, now that made him sound creepy. Sweet mother of mud, Kismet, couldn't you get it right?

He let out a huff and practiced again, this time stepping back and stomping on the ground. It launched pebbles in the air, which he then launched at himself. In a flurry of motion and iron the pebbles fell to the floor one by one, each split perfectly in half. He readjusted his straw hat, opened his mouth, but decided that it would be most impressive of him to say nothing at all.