Blood & Guts...

Cautious of being simply a one trick pony and what might be perceived as a recent favouritism for romantic sappiness I decided it was high-time for some violence, gore and primal yelling... Rawrr!

It was a careless stumble instead of the years of dedicated practice which ultimately saved his life. A clumsy step of a hesitant foot sent the blade nicking the soft flesh of his cheek rather than slicing through the throbbing pulse of his neck. His knee rapped the frozen ground and he instinctually rolled to miss the next deadly slash of his opponent’s blade. Clumps of ice adhered to the length of his cloak as it swept across the earth under him. Using his free hand he collected the cold and sharp deposits. Launching himself upwards with the full strength of his flexing thigh muscles he hurled frozen shards into the eyes of his opponent. The man reared back sharply hands flying belatedly to protect his face. It was all the opportunity he needed. Grip firm on the handle of his sword he hacked across the now unguarded man. He watched dispassionately as the blood spurted bright and fast across the man’s surcoat. Kicking the man to the ground with the force of his boot he stood over him. He yanked off his helm and tossed it carelessly aside. Waiting for the flicker of recognition that widened the man’s eyes he smiled before plunging the blade cleanly and precisely through the man’s heart.

It was a merciful death really, he mused, as he withdrew the sword and patiently waited for the remainder of the man’s blood to seep out from the gaping wound. There were worse ways to die, worse ways to suffer. Bending down he wiped the blade clean on the bloodied surcoat and gazed for a moment at the unwavering stare of the dead man. A young dead man then, barely knighted a day from the look of him, he noted with cool detachment. The killing of a young man meant as little to him as killing of a grandfather. Dead was dead.

Rising he spat, a globule of saliva hanging from his chin, as he attempted to rid the metallic taste from his mouth. A bloodied face, banged up knee and a few bruised ribs proved the youth had managed to get in a few shots of his own. The fight had not been as effortless as it ought to have been, or once would have been, and his breath was still sawing painfully against his ribs. Now in the guttering embers of the fight he began to feel once more the biting cold of his surroundings. He wondered briefly when he had become an old man. The wraith of his nemesis circled his memory tauntingly, hardening his resolve and the plains of his face. Shoving the woollen mitts further down his hands he re-sheathed the sword at his side and set out again into the bleak wilderness.