Snippet #1481535

Objectively, nothing was correct about Blem’s stance. His feet were so close together that the slightest pressure would surely knock him over, and his front was completely exposed. He held the petite grip of the rapier wrong, as though he was wielding a greatsword, and his elbows compensated, and so splayed unnaturally out from either side of his body. His blade was perpendicular to the floor, maybe to emphasize that it would be just as glad to tilt backward, instead, and stab Blem instead of an opponent. Blood soaked the length of the blade, and made slick the grip. It was surprise enough that he had killed someone with it: although sharp, the thing was clearly made to decorate a wall with flair, not decorate the ground with gore.

The uncanny feeling of heroism that had swept Blem into this rare situation had already starved to death in his yellow veins. He began to appreciate just where his vapours had flung him. For one thing, Blem was in front of the enemy, which was far inferior to being behind. For another, the enemy was, to speak more accurately, enemies. And, for a third thing, they were all very close at hand, which was less favourable than being at a considerable distance. With this frank reappraisal of the situation, Blem silently wished, for the future, Kimra bestow on him a few treasures: more foresight, some self-control, and artillery, as well.

He took a step backward. Perhaps it looked somewhat like he was shifting into a defensive posture, and he was finally ready to reveal something of this mysterious two-handed rapier style: the nearest two soldiers likewise stepped back, and shifted their grips. Simultaneously, Blem heard, a little too loud, the short phrase, “can you run?”

Those three words exposed the bluff to all. But the strategy was indeed sound: put these enemies at a considerable distance. The path to the back door was clear, and Blem was quick when needed. Out through the kitchen and the back door, he ran heedless of whether anyone deigned follow him. He heard voices shifting around the main entrance of the Arms, but nobody had yet thought to guard this escape route.

He was nearly at the corner, ready to fade into the avenue, when an unarmed man, wearing robes stylized with the livery of Carmaine, turned around the self-same edge of the building. There was a stillness as the two appraised one another, close enough to feel one anothers’ breath. The man looked at Blem, and his eyes stopped on the bloodied sword. Blem picked out the heavy shoulder bag, beringed hands, and bejewelled neck.

Raised in Edin, Blem had never before seen a wizard, let alone one with official capacity, but he still knew what this was. The magic-user didn’t have time to raise a hand in protest before Blem skewered him through. There would be no frog's-leg stew tonight. With disgust, he left his rapier where it lay, like a pin now cursed by use in a profane voodoo doll.

Although he felt nauseous touching it, Blem did, however, take the shoulder bag from the leaking body. There was certain to be something valuable in there; he could, with these accursed goods, buy another sword. Feeling helpless now that his armament was befouled, he waited to see if anyone else survived the tavern.