I saw him standing there over a body of a fallen.  As I rose up the stairs, my armor scraped along the stone and he turned.  That green mask peering down at me in some mix of emotion I could not see nor feel.  My fingers flexed along the shield I held, as he turned more to face me.  Wordlessly, he hefted his blade up defensively and stepped back to allow me the level ground.  I knew without a word, we were to do battle.  Yet I knew not why, nor the reason.  I hefted my shield, and pulled my blade, the first blow struck against the shield so hard I stumbled, yet I recovered quick enough to swing back at him.  He was fast, and made it beneath the streaking steel.  As it connected with stone, I turned my helm and swung my shield around in time to catch his blade and throw it to the side.  I sent a foot into his gut and he spun away, dazed yet not defeated.  I set my boot upon his fallen blade, and then he vanished in a fit of darkness.  The ink swirled about me, and I struggled for air momentarily in a reeling sensation that he could kill me easily from this vantage.  It was when I regained my senses that I noticed he and the sword I had pinned were both gone.  Only the red soap stone of his writing left behind.  I read them aloud, knowing he had blurred the lines between our worlds, and I would see him again.  Either as friend or foe.  The words read only his name.  "Grim"

Excerpt from the Journal of Soul.