It was a cold day. I had spent the morning hired out to the Orkz who were warring with some Drow. After the battle I began to wander, the snow was just shy of my boot tops and trickled in with each step. There was a light flurry falling at times.
I came across a field, beautifully white and serene. Then I noticed, on opposite sides, groups of warriors staring across at each other. Both were a mixed lot, of races and skills. I realized my taste for blood had not been fulfilled by the earlier battle. The group on my left had a contingent of squealing goblins, therefore I joined the group on my right. As the battle began, I hung back firing my bow at those annoying little pests running through the lines squealing and laughing.
Then my blood lust began to rise and I advanced closer to the melee. I gazed across the lines searching for a good target, and found an archer looking back at me. My heart began to race, I think to myself, I’m good it will be ok. We draw together, time slows, and take careful aim. We fire in unison, time slows, the arrows arc across the lines, seeming to float lazily through the air. Then it happens, at the halfway point, above the ongoing fight, our arrows meet and fall to the bloody snow. I knew at that point I had met my match, with the next volley we would both die. I melted back into the melee, noticing the other doing the same, to search for less deadly adversaries.
