Morne didn't stop when Bobby the Butcher went limp, he didn't loosen his grip as the blood pumping through Bobby's veins slowed.
He didn't stand until his opponent's pulse had vanished, when the life he held in his hands was extinguished like a candle in the wind and the furious light in Bobby's eyes dimmed to something more personal, before fading away altogether.
Morne rose to his feet, wiping the still-wet blood off his face, some of it from Bobby and some of it from him.
Some among Knife-Tongues cheered, while the nobles clapped politely. Tross was one of these, grinning from ear to ear at the profits she had just made.
Others scowled or hollered angrily, having lost quite a bit of money.
The announcer tsk'd under his breath, having just lost three small silvers himself, but didn't forget to work the crowd.
"Round 1 has been completed! There was a lot less blood than I expected, but our new favorite Mage didn't hesitate to provide quality entertainment for us! Let's hope we see some limbs flying in the next round!
"Until then, you've earned yourself a small break, necromancer. Go out the way you came, and we'll be with you shortly."
Morne's gaze flicked to the announcer before returning to Bobby's corpse.
This was the second man he had killed, the first being the Ilnchan cultist he had murdered before his flight from their lair.
Morne had always been told that life was precious and sacred, that taking one away would leave you hollow and empty inside, just as you had left their corpse.
But Morne had felt hollow for over ten years. How could this compare to losing everyone he had ever known and loved?
Kneeling, he unbuckled the straps on Bobby's buckler, eyeing it quizzically before affixing it to his left arm with some struggle.
The two straps were supposed to buckle together at the middle, and since he was strapping it to his arm, he had to both hold the straps together and fasten the buckle with only his right hand.
He eventually succeeded, and tore off some of the smaller bones on the man's trousers. He slid them into his pocket, then stood and walked to the waiting room.
The door shut behind him of its own accord, casting him in darkness for a brief moment before the torch flickered to life.
He sat down on the dirt bench and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes and monitoring his Chimh as he waited for his well to refill.
Worrying about the next fight wouldn't do him any good without information, so he simply waited, concentrating on his Chimh Well and the sound of his own breathing.
Morne quickly lost track of time. He could've been in there for hours, or only a few minutes, though the latter was more likely considering the nature of his captors.
Though he tried to keep his focus on his Chimh Well, his mind couldn't help but wander.
The door opened at some point, and he took a deep breath as he stood.
Despite his melodramatic thoughts, the death of Bobby the Butcher was still weighing on his shoulders. It couldn't be helped; though Morne knew it had been kill-or-be-killed, he couldn't shake that final look in Bobby's eye as Morne wrung the life out of him.
There was anger and hatred, both of which were to be expected. But in those final moments, there had been something else: fear.
Fear was something Bobby had not displayed during the entirety of their fight. There was only unbridled confidence, bordering on arrogance; and an eagerness for blood. Bobby was the bear the rabbits feared, not the other way around.
If it was fear of his killer that Bobby showed, Morne might have been able to shrug it off. But it wasn't. Instead, it was a fear Morne knew personally: the fear of death, of finding what awaited beyond the mortal realm.
Even the most devout of the Benevolent Gods' worshippers might feel no small amount of fear when faced with Azath's embrace. Intrusive thoughts would well up uncontrollably, stoking their anxiety and fears and doing everything they could to light a fire that would burn down their confidence.
Had their faith been enough? Were their doubts in their deity's power, no matter how small, enough to condemn them to the void? Was there even an afterlife at all? Or was it a trick the Gods played to instill loyalty?
Ghosts proved that humans could persist after death, but these were cursed beings. They had never crossed that final threshold, they had never seen what lay beyond, if there was anything at all, so mortals could only hope.
But Bobby was not religious, or at least, he wasn't so far as Morne could tell. Morne had never been the religious type either, which was why that light in the Butcher's eye had wormed its way into Morne's mind.
What awaited people like them, people with no God to rely on? Endless torment? Another life? Or would their consciousness simply dissipate, never to be seen in this world again?
With his final breath, Bobby wasn't thinking of the pain, the feeling of his brain shutting off neuron by neuron as his lungs screamed for oxygen, he was thinking of what was next.
A primal fear, one that every living thing felt in the face of Azath, was what Bobby's last thoughts were consumed with. When confronted with such a crippling terror, even the mightiest of men would crumble.
This same fear was one Morne was all too familiar with.
He had felt it ten years ago, as his Ythreen was stricken down and his entire life was torn away from him.
He had felt it two years ago, during his frantic flight from the cultists of Ilnchan, every fiber of his being terrified of what would happen to him if he wasn't fast enough to escape.
He felt it, if only in small amounts, as his head was separated from his shoulders under the trial priestess' orders.
When he came to this last memory, he suddenly felt three times lighter.
That spark of guilt that tried so desperately to consume his thoughts was snuffed out in an instant, a sense of calm washing over him like a storm cloud and dousing the embers.
His mind was clear. Clearer than it had been in a long time.