Starlight

[The Humble Sage]

The Sage’s breathing was labored and purposeful, as he fought back the red haze that was overwhelming his senses. The elf settled into the crouch of an experienced knife fighter, the elven mail barely hindering the stance. The Sage tried an experimental poke or two, the elf staying cautious of his longer reach. The elf was still remarkably skilled with his weapon, even bereft of his blade of choice. Even that simple an assault left the Sage feeling spent and off balance. He struggled to maintain his composure, knowing that his foe would pounce on any sign of weakness. He would have to time this attack precisely, because he was quite confident he wouldn’t be able to make another one. A single exchange to triumph or perish, all the schemes and plans come to naught here in the end. Success or failure, born of skill and intuition despite himself, a smirk of anticipation crept across his pain-twisted face.

“Well, then.” He said with a clear effort. “Have at you, Elf!” and thrust the dueling cane forward. The elf attempted to deflect the blow, but a mistimed swipe pushed his weapon back and away. Strangely the Sage’s foe leaned into the strike, a sharp jab of the dueling cane, above the left lung. The Elf stopped suddenly, arm outstretched, even through mail, the strike would be painful. but not lethal? Surely it’s just a stick, is that your thought? The Sage pressed the hidden button within his cane’s handle, and the Elf jolted in shock. The hidden blade had torn straight through his mail, and the elf started to collapse backwards, face already paling. I am sorry that you have been misled to such an end, elf. You fought with the skill of dedication.

The Swordsman fell back, with torn mail above a bleeding heart. Yet the Sage’s remorse was ripped from his soul by the extreme pain that assailed him. As his eyes spotted into nothing, he glimpsed the elf’s sword in his hands. It had been removed during the exchange, and now the hole surged with inky blood. The Sage stretched one hand out, searching for the wall to lean against, but toppled over on his side instead, cane dropped at his side and hand’s clutching futily at the wound. Distantly he heard his ruptured lung attempting to pump the inky-blood that was leaking into the hole, but already he was too far gone to think anything about how he should stop it. He also heard a familiar voice, crying out in fear and dismay, but his failing mind could not place it.

A pyric victory then? I do wonder how dying will feel…