Monday, March 18, 2013

100 Words a Day 217

He rose from the seat, the stout construction groaning as his weight came free, and walked over to the armor stand. He donned the ancient chainmail, feeling it fall familiarly into place.

He ran his mangled hand, missing two fingers, over the links, feeling the gaps where weapons had penetrated his old friend over the years.

He died his first death from a spear thrust to the gut. He tracked that bastard down and gave him a matching hole.

His second death was from behind, a traitorous lieutenant. He shrugged at the memory; he had no hard feelings about it.

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