And this concludes the duel. I am very grateful for the players of Smiddich, Alyssa and Dustiria. Couldn't have done it without them.The Red Tide Even as his other hand reached for a dagger. The prince never had a chance to raise it; the black-bladed Duke of Perdan had already made up the distance and implanted his sword to shoulder, inches deep. "Enough, Nemean", said the Duke, withdrawing the blood-slick blade. "That was well fought, and not as sure a thing as I might have hoped. There is passion here, and I can only hope to stir it, and direct."
He extended his open palm to the fallen knight. From the door, the bewildered barman viewed the scene of the carnage with a wince.
~Smiddich Fontaine
The cold was replaced with searing heat. Steel made way for a steady stream of crimson. It quickly covered half his chest, oozing nay, pulsing out of his flesh. Nemean tried to sit up and yelped as he instinctively had put weight on his hand. The Duke's basket hilt already forgotten. The young man fell backwards and droplets decorated the scene.
Among the fury, worry and much greater parts concern swiftly turning to panic a strong and steady hand presented itself. A clammy youth's hand clasped it. Slick with more than mere sweat. Nemean winced, croaked a protest he tried to stifle as the powerful hand gently closed around his and pulled him up. Everything spun before his eyes. The warm yet piercing oaken eyes of the Duke studied him. Why? A weak confusion skid across his face. Not realizing his legs were already wobbly.
As he followed Smiddich's eyes he saw that his entire right side was red. The floor around his feet had begun to pool. Nausea swept through him and his head felt light. That didn't seem to be the most important fact of his life though. Nemean made an effort to look at the Duke. ''Well fought.'' His head bobbed. ''Your Grace.''
Rushing away from the Bar, the burly barkeep sped towards the pair. ''Proper station be damned! Can't have a Noble dying in my bar.'' With a very back-alley technique Nemean had his deep shoulder wound triaged and the flow stemmed with a firmly knotted washcloth.
Fluttering his eyes, Nemean looked up at the Duke a final time and smiled before passing out.
