SouthpawFighter
New Member
The sellsword's gaze slowly drifted down to his worn and bloodied hands. He gritted his teeth. It was his blood. Warm blood trickled down his torso and forearm. The sellsword prayed a blood-staunching prayer of the Old Spirit. Seal my wounds. Clot my blood as concrete. Staunch my life's water from leaving my soul.
The blood slowed it's descent down his torso. The sellsword muttered a prayer of thanks to the Old Spirit as he stumbled to a nearby oak tree. It stood above the grassy plains of Elrohir, disinterested in the chaos and ulterior motives of men. It still provided shade to the young man, as it did to any creatures that sought refuge under the heat of the sun. The sellsword rested his back against the bark, and took off his lamellar cuirass that had retired early. He undressed his leather tunic, which was also ruined. The cut in his torso was deep, and the abdominal muscles under the cut were hidden by the blood that was still dripping out of his wound. I need to find a healer. He unclasped the forearm guard on his left arm. his sword arm. The leather was ruined. The cut wasn't as deep, but it was long. Long enough to require a healer's touch.
"Ughhh. Gods save me... Gods.." A voice from a nearby body pleaded. The sellsword gripped his sword and winced when his forearm muscles tightened to hold the weight of the handle. He walked to the sound of the voice. There were so many bodies sprawled out across the plains. Enemies and allies alike. He heard a whimper to his left. It came from one of the men he'd fought with. A young man, conscripted into battle with the promise of being honor to his family and a salary to put bread on the table. Honor. What a funny idea. The sellsword looked down at the young man who was barely old enough to grow facial hair. His insides were bulging out of his torso that had been cut through hip to hip.
He knelt by the young soldier and held his hand. "You're dying today. Make your peace with your gods." The sellsword solemnly explained. The young soldier looked up at the sellsword. Fear showed on his pale white face. His blue eyes were unfocused, something that happens when you lose enough of your life's water. "Wait.. Wait.. Hold on.." the younger soldier pleaded with the sellsword, as if bargaining with him could save his life.
"What is your name, young man?" The sellsword coldy asked.
"Ash...Er" He slurred, dark blood caught in his throat.
"Asher. Your family is proud of you."
"What his your home like?" The sellsword asked, still gripping Asher's hand.
"Wheat fields... Orchards..." Asher mumbled.
"Think about home. That's what your last thought should be."
"Momma! Momma... Mom..." Asher muttered and stopped. He was dead.
The sellsword sighed. He checked Asher's tunic pockets for anything useful. He found nothing valuable. He turned Asher on his back. Plop! Asher's insides fell out of his chest cavity and onto the ground. The sellsword undressed Asher's torso and tore his tunic into bandages. He tied them across his own wounds, and walked off into the forest.
The blood slowed it's descent down his torso. The sellsword muttered a prayer of thanks to the Old Spirit as he stumbled to a nearby oak tree. It stood above the grassy plains of Elrohir, disinterested in the chaos and ulterior motives of men. It still provided shade to the young man, as it did to any creatures that sought refuge under the heat of the sun. The sellsword rested his back against the bark, and took off his lamellar cuirass that had retired early. He undressed his leather tunic, which was also ruined. The cut in his torso was deep, and the abdominal muscles under the cut were hidden by the blood that was still dripping out of his wound. I need to find a healer. He unclasped the forearm guard on his left arm. his sword arm. The leather was ruined. The cut wasn't as deep, but it was long. Long enough to require a healer's touch.
"Ughhh. Gods save me... Gods.." A voice from a nearby body pleaded. The sellsword gripped his sword and winced when his forearm muscles tightened to hold the weight of the handle. He walked to the sound of the voice. There were so many bodies sprawled out across the plains. Enemies and allies alike. He heard a whimper to his left. It came from one of the men he'd fought with. A young man, conscripted into battle with the promise of being honor to his family and a salary to put bread on the table. Honor. What a funny idea. The sellsword looked down at the young man who was barely old enough to grow facial hair. His insides were bulging out of his torso that had been cut through hip to hip.
He knelt by the young soldier and held his hand. "You're dying today. Make your peace with your gods." The sellsword solemnly explained. The young soldier looked up at the sellsword. Fear showed on his pale white face. His blue eyes were unfocused, something that happens when you lose enough of your life's water. "Wait.. Wait.. Hold on.." the younger soldier pleaded with the sellsword, as if bargaining with him could save his life.
"What is your name, young man?" The sellsword coldy asked.
"Ash...Er" He slurred, dark blood caught in his throat.
"Asher. Your family is proud of you."
"What his your home like?" The sellsword asked, still gripping Asher's hand.
"Wheat fields... Orchards..." Asher mumbled.
"Think about home. That's what your last thought should be."
"Momma! Momma... Mom..." Asher muttered and stopped. He was dead.
The sellsword sighed. He checked Asher's tunic pockets for anything useful. He found nothing valuable. He turned Asher on his back. Plop! Asher's insides fell out of his chest cavity and onto the ground. The sellsword undressed Asher's torso and tore his tunic into bandages. He tied them across his own wounds, and walked off into the forest.
