Behind Shroud and Mask. (Retracing ones steps)

[Eban]

So awakens the blood soaked champion, reaking of shade and hard whiskey, acknowledging the comfort of the hard floor. Confusion takes hold. What happened last night? There was the fight. No, not the fight fight, the argument fight. Then there was the doctor ... and the first bottle of whiskey. A trip to Aegis, the second bottle of whiskey. Sat and talked, not much excitement, the third drink (a flask of hard rum). Imported whiskey seems to taste as the curtain begins to sway; joined by another as the clock deemed evil. To drunk for the job, we said our goodbyes, off to a forgotten place, and dusty alibis. Another, maybe two for the trip; as long as it takes to get behind this mask and shroud. "The cloak of death", seems fitting; the flash of a match, and the enjoyment of a pipe. Was it just one? Sure hope the drink will outweigh the smoke. Another round, got through it fast, the striking of another pipe on the way to the pub. A shot for the lot, Him. Nothing particular about him, although he was quiet; drinking alone, in the corner of the bar. He was very average. Black hair, brown eyes, small statue with a portly build. He was the one. Why him? Secure the mask, open the vial. Another round for the pub. That's where the blood came from. I sure hope the smoke will outweigh these drinks. So ends the night of the champion.

So awakens the muck covered commoner, reaking of rot and slime, acknowledging the comfort of the swampy soil beneath his weight. What happened last night? There was the drink at the ... a man in a robe? A really big man in a mask. A really big man in a robe and a mask with a weapon. The swamp makes a peculiar thud as the tossed sword lands to the side of He. Why would one need this? The big man has his own. "Up, on yer feet." Grab the sword ... get up you fool. The big man is so quick. Swing, parried, dodge ...pain. Blood, from the left arm. "Too slow" There's no where to run, nobody to call for help. Swing, parried, disarmed, leg sweep. The swamp makes a particular thud as he is tossed like a rag upon the ground. Pain, left forearm, more blood. "Use yer grip." How can one still stand? This isn't fair. Pain, right knee, suddenly sinking into the muck. "Pay attention." The swamp finds its way to the wound, instant burning. Swing, man dodged, disarmed, shield follows and connects, ears ringing as he again falls to the seeping canvas. How is the man so comfortable with this? So much blood, pain, outside right knee, "Move quicka" Failure to comply, stuck on a knee. Pain, sword arm, the swamp makes a peculiar thud as its dropped from his hand."Shoul'a used yer grip" All he asked was why. Pain, across the chest, everything spins. Peculiar thud as a fleeting soul falls into the swamp. The last words he heard. "Out 'ere, I'll leave ya to da croc's. No one noticed ya leave dat little pub, or tha' I brough' you 'ere. There won' be an investigation. Yer fate was ta give the swamp a nice meal, I hope you don' 'ave a God." So ends the life of the commoner.