Scarred

We exchanged blows, hot and furious, and from the start I knew I was heavily outmatched. Our blades sounded together with a great reverberation that echoed against the walls around us, and the crowd that circled was hardly a footnote in my mind. There was only him, and I had to stab him, as quickly and as often as I could for the venom on my blade to sink in. The quicker it took effect, the quicker the fight would be over.

 

He was sweating, and my own silks were clinging to my body uncomfortably, a matted second skin. Pouring sweat, it made it seem like I was melting to the ground, melting under each blow of that long dagger this surgeon, this bard, wielded so expertly and deftly. My skin was as putty beneath each strike, and after a while I felt that he had a point to it all, a cruel goal in mind. Soon enough, I found out; blistering pain, pain unimaginable except for the pain of dying. His dagger split my face open in a gruesome fashion. The blood poured from the gash, and still I kept going — but it was hardly adequate. I was put in my place soon enough… grovelling, on my knees. He fell soon after, but the damage was done. I was done. Couldn’t even beat a crippled…

 

I remember then that I called out for Dagerian, to duel the huge Charali. I thought he’d finish Ariel’s work. I so badly wanted to escape the judging glares, the whispered words. I so badly wanted to leave this plane of existence and go to her.

 

It was not to be. It was never to be, until years later. Years.