He was on the verge of a battle. A tussle had been on the cards for a long time now. He had tried his best to avert it. But who could thwart higher orders? Certainly not a pawn. There was immense pressure. From all sides. If Fate was against him, even the Gods conspired to bore chinks on his armour. Those chinks would soon proliferate to expose gaping holes, and his armour would be just as good as a sieve, tailormade for his enemies' artillery to embed themselves into his system. But if blood had to be shed, there were hardly any options left. He was a warrior after all. He was expected to made out of the stern stuff Mark Antony once waxed eloquent about. He was made to stare death in the eye and defeat it, at whatever cost. He had remained one-up against death ever since he had taken to the weapons.
He entered the field. He armed himself with weapons. Three powerful swords, each of them lethally sharp and capable of delivering fatal blows on their own. He had used them before to escape death numerous times. He geared up.
He rubbed his hands together. His palms were warm, yet soaked. He looked at himself in the mirror. No blood yet. Only a matter of time, he told himself. He rarely returned from battle without a bruise or a scar. He rubbed his cheeks, his chin and his temple slowly but surely. It helped him focus on the job at hand. It seemed to grant him some unforeseen strength and belief. It was the usual drill when he embarked on yet another of those Would-He-Return-From-This-Alive journeys.
He was on his way.
He caught sight of a horde of black ruffians charging towards him. He unleashed those powerful weapons of his, and brandished them with a flourish.
Chop. Chop. Chop. Heads went tumbling, and he marvelled at the lack of resistance from his opponents. When confronted with genuine valour and sophisticated weaponry, they just caved in. Every single time. He was in a rush at the moment. He permeated into their ranks.
And then the first drop came out. He had been struck. Reddish brown fluid oozed out of his system, in trickles to begin with. And then profusely. He yelled for courage, wiped the blood off, and pursued his task with dogged optimism. More ruffians fell. More blood exuded. He was a spectacle to behold. His eyes sparkled, the sinews of his face tightened, and his heart throbbed. Horatio Nelson would have been be proud of him, though he still had two eyes for vision and two legs to support his body. He continued to strike terror into their hearts.
Within minutes, he was done. He had lost count of the number of warriors who had been slain by the wrath of those deadly weapons. His face was a mess, but he was now relieved. The battle was over. Aah. Back to base camp. He was alive to tell his tale and see the light of another day. He'd won. He sighed and reached for his conch to signal victory.
"Dai! Stop howling and get out of the bathroom! I want to shave next!"
Damn.
"Coming, Dad. Give me two minutes."
He entered the field. He armed himself with weapons. Three powerful swords, each of them lethally sharp and capable of delivering fatal blows on their own. He had used them before to escape death numerous times. He geared up.
He rubbed his hands together. His palms were warm, yet soaked. He looked at himself in the mirror. No blood yet. Only a matter of time, he told himself. He rarely returned from battle without a bruise or a scar. He rubbed his cheeks, his chin and his temple slowly but surely. It helped him focus on the job at hand. It seemed to grant him some unforeseen strength and belief. It was the usual drill when he embarked on yet another of those Would-He-Return-From-This-Alive journeys.
He was on his way.
He caught sight of a horde of black ruffians charging towards him. He unleashed those powerful weapons of his, and brandished them with a flourish.
Chop. Chop. Chop. Heads went tumbling, and he marvelled at the lack of resistance from his opponents. When confronted with genuine valour and sophisticated weaponry, they just caved in. Every single time. He was in a rush at the moment. He permeated into their ranks.
And then the first drop came out. He had been struck. Reddish brown fluid oozed out of his system, in trickles to begin with. And then profusely. He yelled for courage, wiped the blood off, and pursued his task with dogged optimism. More ruffians fell. More blood exuded. He was a spectacle to behold. His eyes sparkled, the sinews of his face tightened, and his heart throbbed. Horatio Nelson would have been be proud of him, though he still had two eyes for vision and two legs to support his body. He continued to strike terror into their hearts.
Within minutes, he was done. He had lost count of the number of warriors who had been slain by the wrath of those deadly weapons. His face was a mess, but he was now relieved. The battle was over. Aah. Back to base camp. He was alive to tell his tale and see the light of another day. He'd won. He sighed and reached for his conch to signal victory.
"Dai! Stop howling and get out of the bathroom! I want to shave next!"
Damn.
"Coming, Dad. Give me two minutes."
