The Wretched Warrior

I tread through the mire, forcing my way through the dense branches that reach out to collect my soul, pulling my boots out of the muck with a pop, stumbling forward onto a rotting tree stump. The life of a warrior is not without turmoil. Thrice have I been assaulted by creatures of the dark, and thrice have I repelled them. But an unknown amount of leagues lie stretched out before me, though I cannot see their breadth through the haze and fog. Counting my steps though, I figure that I have gone a little over nineteen. Nevertheless, my path will not always take me through this bog. For now, though, I am compelled to beg passage of the creatures that dwell within. My sword, rusted and pitiful with age, drags at my belt. My shield bears many cracks and weighs heavily on my back. But I trudge on, for I know that my present sufferings are not worth comparing to the glories of that hall to which, with every step, I draw nearer.

I hope that I will have the strength to make it through the fen before night falls - in the darkness, I fear, I may take a step too far and never set foot on the path again. If time will avail me, I can spark a fire and take some rest in the cover of the trees which I know lie on the borders of the mire. The sun sets red. My conscience wavers and I, for a moment, consider staying the night. Then I hear something to my left, and lowering my supplies onto solid ground, I draw my blade with caution.

A dragon of bone bursts from the ground on my left, forcing me to throw myself backwards into the bush. I narrowly avoid impaling myself on my own blade and scramble to my feet, shield whipping over my shoulder and locking into place. The dragon waits not and lunges forward. Terror seizes me, but not so much as to impair my reason. The dragon has no flesh, no blood, so I re-evaluate my tactics. The jaw of my oppressor snaps narrowly above my head, and spinning to the side I see a claw follow. I bare my shield, deflecting the limb for a moment before severing it with one great strike. But the dragon seems not affected. If anything, he comes at me with a fury unparalleled by any other foe I have herein encountered. Another strike at my shield shatters it into uselessness and my arm feels the blow. It responds sluggishly as if broken, and I swipe at the dragon to give myself rest. Suddenly he backs off, and changes tactics, herding me around my small patch of dry earth. I stumble backwards into the clutch of his severed claw - still alive, still grasping for my life. I kick it into the mud, but the dragon has seized his opportunity. Using the distraction, he comes at me once more with his jaws to finish my life.

Teeth meet bone and I cry out, for whereas the breaking of my arm had still been in question, it was no longer. He gives it a twist, sending pain throughout my entire frame before I composed myself to hack that fearsome skull from its body. It does not stop biting, though, and throwing my sword to the ground I grab his jaw and rip it free. The head falls to the ground like so many pieces of bone. I pause for breath, but my job is not done. Before me the body of the dragon flails with a passion, its separated head able only to see what is directly in front of it. I do not rest again until each bone has been torn from its brother, and all lie sinking in the waters. Blood trickles down my arm, and night has come.

Against my better judgment I decide to stay, and giving my useless shield one last task, I construct a fire. Using what herbs I could find I dress the wound and collapse, exhausted. The fire burns out but I am not aware. My only thought is to last the night. I may be, I think to myself, the most wretched warrior that ever lived. But I am a warrior nonetheless, and there comes not a day where the world is safe from its monsters. And there comes not a day when its monsters are safe from me.