The cloaked man stood frozen, pearls of sweat rolling down his face. The wind had somehow managed to take down the hood of his cloak, gently brushing against his matte blonde hair.
The windswept hair conjured a hopeless visage with his thin maroon eyeballs. His mouth was slightly open, despair slowly contorting his face.
Northern, however, just stared with cold indifference, the point of his sword slightly touching the wooden ground of the ship's deck.
Silence wafted tensely between the two of them as the man was not sure what to do.
His mind screamed in utter disarray,
'No, no, no, no, no, this was not how this was supposed to go. We had planned this for days; this was only supposed to be a preliminary stage of what is to come. How could things go so wrong? I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead, he's going to kill me.'
An even stronger despair began to rise in his head. One that seemed to totally consume the one Northern had inflicted upon him.
