"Awwwww," the captain feigned concern while waving his sword condescendingly. "Does it hurt? Do you regret it? Regret trying to save your scummy friend? It's okay; you'll die just as painfully as he will!"
Meanwhile, two of the three guards were shouting various lines, insulting me and rousing their captain to action. The last, with a look of sullen dejection, focused his gaze to the blood-stained floors below, namely the fallen dead.
I staggered backward, cradling my injured side and pressuring the wound. Blood spilt from the cracks of my fingers, leaving a distinguished crimson trail along the floor.
Beads of sweat poured profusely from my pores, eventually becoming a moist sheen enveloping me entirely. The moisture was akin to glue, dampening, and sticking my clothes to my skin.
