The swordsman stepped forward, spinning his twin blades with practiced ease as he circled his opponent. No tricks this time. This had to be a real win. If they sniffed out any of what they’d call magic, they’d kill him. Or try, anyway. That wouldn’t work out well for any of them. They called him Blades, because of the two short swords he wielded. The unique pair like as none ever seen on Jerojj. Black as night, and not made of steel. Not steel, but something else, something no one else could determine because no one else could touch them. The blades had a reputation for punishing those who tried. Blades was small, and lithe, with skin nearly as dark as the blades he bore. His face was split by a tight mustache and goatee, his hair shaved tight to his scalp. One eye drooped a little, as if he wore a perpetual squint. His partners found it endearing, or so they told him. Focus, Blades. His opponent was an ax-wielder, one of the Northern Girthon barbarians. Big, as most of them were, but fast as a striking cobra for all his bulk. His furs stank of urine, and other bodily fluids. He’d probably worn them for weeks. Furs weren’t exactly easy care laundry. His mind was wandering again. A habitual problem for someone in his condition. Hard to take life and death fights seriously. And if he wasn’t careful, it was going to get this other guy killed.
Posted on: Mon, 03 Jun 2013 08:54:34 +0000
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