Wednesday, March 23, 2016


Half an hour before, his heart sang in victory. Joyous and righteous, violence had proved his troth. Still-quaking seats had cowered in gasping silence before the broken pollaxe in his fist. Tall and quiet the free warrior walked away. Only the crows cried for his victory.

Now, the warrior panted in exertion, dashing unbidden tears from filthy cheeks. It had taken ten terrible minutes to cut free from his ruined paldrons and cuirass. Then, ten minutes further to force a vambrace back onto his purple bulging arm.

He left behind a basin filled with rust-colored water and sanguine strips of filthy linen. His ruined armaments drug in a bundle behind him. The free warrior hobbled ahead, bent and ruined.

His only hopes? To find blacksmith ere nightfall who might set his broken bones, and mayhaps a belt or two of strong continental wine.

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