A Man Without Fault

With hair the color of blackest midnight and eyes a violent violet, he was striking. High cheekbones and a clean stark jaw-line foretold of a determination that cut to the bone. He was tall, broad-shouldered and possessed a leashed strength that was best described as tenacious. Two jet hued eyebrows slashed across his high forehead, with tips that winged up at the ends. His skin was stretched utterly taut and was a translucent alabaster that seemed to glow from within. He was lean, but tightly muscled and the type of man that is naturally feared by all. No one who ever saw him believed him to be anything less than the predator he so clearly was.
Sharp minded with a clever tongue that matched, he shredded every opponent he ever faced. He never showed even the slightest sign of a vicious temper, but it seemed to threaten just beneath the urbanely cool surface. He seldom raised his velvety voice, but rather when questioned he lowered it, deepened and darkened it until it made the skin crawl and the soul cringe in abject terror.
He never smiled, smirked, simpered or stole. He did not beg, brag, bellow, borrow nor bend. He believed in duty, dignity and dedication. He was a proud man and vanity was something he claimed to abhor.
He was well-educated, well-spoken and well-dressed. However, well-to-do he was not. His wealth was great and his ancestry was of kings and conquerors. A man skilled in the arts of war and command, his hands were neither red nor dirty. Suspected yet never charged, few would dare to cross his path. Those who did lived only long enough to sincerely regret having made such a decision. He frowned when they flirted; he scrutinized when they stared. He was as unpredictable as he was constant. Not one to fade into the background, he could move without making a sound.
His style was simple; he wore mostly tailored black accented with hints of silver. His shirts were as crisp as his manners and his attire was as flawless as his diction was exact. His shoes were hand-made Italian and were polished to a fine shine. He was elegant rather than excessive; bold, but not brash. His absolute control was clearly apparent in every stride he took.
Women swore that he was a fallen angel and men claimed he was Lucifer’s favorite brother. He never faltered in what he did nor attempted anything without success. He had the charisma of an entertainer, the powerful personality of a political head and the sly, silent sleuth of a sniper.
He could enter a room without anyone’s notice. He would appear slowly; a shadow gradually gaining substance. He could enter a room and command the attention of all within it. He would stride forward; appearing as a god among men. Everyone knew of him; everyone had heard of him, but no one could classify him. His secrets belonged to him and he never allowed them to leak out.
He was forever solitary, but this was by choice and as such he was never seen as an object of pity. He fascinated others; he mesmerized them, but none dared to approach him. None dared to question him. None dared to touch him.
He understood all and was understood by none. He was without fear and engendered fear in all those he encountered. He did not live; he did not exist; he simply was.
His name was Dante.