Randoms

Warlock

With time, all lights will eventually fade. Or so the old men say, arched over their books in their towers, locking their power away when all they need do is reach out and grasp it. The mortal life is not one that any man can transcend, nor escape. Every life will eventually be extinguished, be it by blade, bullet or time. I am proof of this falsehood. 

A shiver wracked my body as I awoke, and a gust of cold air tore through my lungs. Every muscle in my body tensed, and for a moment, my skin burned like I had stepped into the heart of a volcano. And then all that stopped and I was on my feet, yet I was still blind. 

Standing in darkness, the sounds of combat clamoured around me, the bite of sword upon shield,  report of pistol or musket and of course the sound of flesh being turned to ribbons and sheared from bone. And then the whistle of a spear falling towards my head. 

I spun and caught the shaft, wrenching it away from my attacker. Tumbling the spear around, my forearems buzzed as the butt connected with jaw, and then I twisted as the blade caught flesh. The man screamed like they all do as the blade churned up his heart before he fell limp, and I let the spear fall to the ground with him. 

Yet still darkness gripped me. Reaching for my eyes, I found only empty sockets, with smooth skin lining the cavity. I sighed, slightly annoyed though it proved little matter. The discomfort of what would follow was nothing new. 

Tensing my body stiff, I focused my mind to a point as a terrible itch filled my sockets. After a few seconds the world appeared before me. A dismal thing really, with steep grey stone walls, and a gravel floor. A fighting pit, where all the city's best and worst combatants congregated to make a living upon another's death. The aristocracy always offered a hefty prize for the champion. And once the money was spent and gone, so too disappeared its new owner. And yet the masses still came. 

Ducking as a hatchet arced towards my face, I got a glimpse of my tattered long coat and breeches. The stitching told stories of old wealth, be it honest or not, what with the rich gold threads holding together the royal blue fabric. I felt positively regal as I swung a leg out and tripped my assailant, an ugly fellow with a knotted beard. The ringmail over his chest did nothing to stop his own axe from splitting his face. 

I surveyed the battlefield, taking count of those who still stood. Many men fought toe to toe with sword or hammer, while those with enough money to afford a gun aimed their barrels into the throng. It was hard to keep from laughing as I watched a rifleman lose his head as his long gun backfired, the black powder turning his skin to cinders as the metal tore apart his skin. I always preferred the art of melee, rather than putting my trust in a metal deathtrap. 

Or maybe not, I thought as my hand brushed the pistol holstered at my waist. I felt for a matching sabre on the other hip and smiled as my hand gripped the ornate hilt. Drawing the sword, I feasted my eyes upon the gold plated dragons twisting around my hand, their jaws set to bite into the shimmering steel blade. We would have been good friends, had he not decided to put a bullet in my head, I thought as the memories flooded back. It always took one of the artifacts to do it. One item sharpened all the fuzzy images in my head, usually the one that did the deed. It was then that I noticed the blood at the blade's tip. Maybe it wasn't the gun . . .

I had been knocked to the ground by some ape of a man before a bullet took him in the brain, spattering me with warm bits of flesh. RIght, and before I could move his blade took me as well. So where am I then? I wondered as I inspected the ground. It appeared my killer had stumbled for a while as I wormed my way inside him, devouring what was left of his being. He had been a weak one, already tired of this existence and ready to move on. I suppose that's why he turned to the pits, I thought before shaking myself from my musings. There was still this tourney to win.