Fractal Realities: The Arena

August Rode

A former Ficleteer...

As the finely honed edge of his opponent's weapon sliced the air where his head had been a mere fraction of a second previously, he would have sworn to the gods that the blade sang, not with anger but joy. Stinging above his left eye told him that the blade had probably nicked his eyebrow.

Hitting the sand, he rolled and lashed out with his own sword at his opponent's legs but failed to connect. He made it onto one knee when the song came again. Taking it as a warning, he raised his sword and blocked the incoming blade. The world turned red as blood dripped into his eye.

Standing, he heard the song double in volume, warning him again. He raised his sword just in time to deflect the blade downward, away from his head, and was rewarded with sharp pain across his belly. He stepped back and put both hands to his stomach. Warmth surged through his hands and a roar filled the air.

He never knew whether the roar was from the crowd or whether it was the rush of blood in his ears as the life left his body.

Comments (1 so far!)

Robert Quick

Robert Quick

I like it. It's definitely a cool way to interpret that sentence. I almost always think of warmth as well, warm, and generally comforting. When the warmth is your own lifeblood spilling out of you, I suppose it's the opposite of that.

  • #3839 Posted 3 years ago
  • 0

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