Surveying the score of bodies littering the forest floor, Rifkin feels a second wave of shame shudder through his slightly Elvish frame. Once again, when the chips were down, his cowardice rose up and overwhelmed him.
Many of their ambushers had managed to flee, but they were of little consequence. They’d been terrified at the end and, as much as he loathed himself for it, he understood them completely. After escaping with their lives, they’d not risk coming back.
Glancing over at Fortu, a man who’d fearlessly charged forward and held the line alone against eight well-armed soldiers and battle-hungry Orcs, he sinks even lower.
Inspiring tunes and a handful of minor healing spells; is that all he’s worth?
As soon as that crossbow bolt glanced by him from the trees overhead, he fled with no thought or concern for anything or anyone beyond his own craven survival.
Never again though.
Pulling Spider Murphy’s magical shortsword out of his backpack, he wraps his slender musician’s fingers around its leathered hilt.
Never again would he allow himself to be so pathetic.
No comments:
Post a Comment