OoC: Sooo, no idea how this is going to go or how the title ties into anything. I'm sure it'll resolve itself somehow.
BiC:
The wind was chilly, bitter with smoke, and carried with it the scent of rain. The evening sky was clear now, but there would be a storm tonight.
He sat on the wall, his sword in his hands, polishing it though it was already clean. The mindless task of rubbing the cloth up and down and up and down the blade distracted him and even let him escape, if only for a while, from his own thoughts.
He focused on his reflection, on the feel of the cloth under his fingertips and the cold steel through it, on removing every smudge and streak and speck of dust, anything, anything at all to keep darker thoughts at bay.
He was polishing the sword so violently that his hand slipped, and he yelped with pain as the edge slashed deeply into his palm. He raised his hand to his eyes and watched as a few drops of blood trickled down and fell to the ground, then wrapped the clean polish-cloth around his palm, wiped the blood from his sword, and got slowly to his feet.
Over the roofs, the wind sighed softly, and storm clouds gathered in the east.