Kirin laughs as he fights.

It's exhilarating, a whirling dance of blades, and he weaves between his unwitting partners with the ease of long familiarity. His knives flash against the cold winter sun, reflecting off the snow and ice. It's easy to be caught up in the glittering spectacle, but Kirin has something more important to focus on--namely, the hordes of undead he's cutting through like a chill wind. There's a necromancer out there somewhere, but for now, Kirin contents himself with shredding his opponents. Each of them needs a fatal blow to put them down, and there's absolutely no margin for error. A single slip, and he'll find his enemy rising up behind him again.

Kirin hasn't had this much fun in years, not since the first time he and his group first raided a nobleman's home and made off with a Thanesday feast fit for a king. He remembers it now, with a pang of nostalgia--the stolen candles and the dim streetlamp, and the jostling of hungry teenagers each pushing for first in line to the food. It's a very different Thanesday to the one he's celebrating now, alone and hungry and fighting what might as well be an army, but the merriment carries over nonetheless. As noon strikes, Kirin pauses for a moment to raise a glittering blade to the sun, a silent salute to the others of his little band, wherever they might be. Of course, then the next wave of inexhaustible, unfeeling enemies are upon him, and he dances back into the fray.

Later, when his energy runs out enough that he can no longer fight safely, he will flee, and no doubt spend most of the night running from the necromancer and his bands of scouts--searching for the one who decimated part of their forces.

It's no real sacrifice. Kirin lives for the fight, and indulging himself now means that another family sleeps safely tonight.

No one should be alone, and cold, and afraid, not on Thanesday.

And as for Kirin? He's not alone, not really. He never is.