∴ Another Stab ∴
You grimace as your opponent wheels round to the right, holding a steady line. Once again, your boasts have landed you in trouble – and it’s not going well for you.
You only meant it as a jest. A little ribald teasing. But the scar-faced mercenary didn’t see it that way. Stools scraped against floorboards and steel was unsheathed, and before you knew it you were stumbling backwards across the low-lit tavern, sword in hand, as the humourless blaggard challenged you to “prove it”.
There’s no use denying it, you’ve had too much to drink. Your judgment is slow, your movement impulsive. The mercenary sneers as you throw a clumsy parry, jerking back just in time to avoid a cut the the arm. You curse under your breath. If you were sober, you’d have him pinned in a flash. If you were sober, he’d be begging for mercy. If you were sober…
And then it all happens rather quickly. The scarred man beats your sword to the right, stepping in with a triumphant leer. In the time it takes to register this, your left hand has already flown across your hip to slip under the sturdy steel sail of Old Faithful. For a split second you revel in the dagger’s rugged realness, wondering why you hadn’t drawn it long before – then time starts again and you’re catching your opponent’s blade hard, binding to the left with the swiftly drawn dagger as your sword wheels round to leave a smart red line across his exposed left side.
“Told you so,” you hiss, before collapsing backwards.