One day, as we sat eating our small rations (I shared with my soldiers the hardships of our meager diet), I noticed a Breton and two Imperials laughing at an Orc who lay on the ground. I casually walked up behind them, investigating. My vision swam red at what I saw.
The Orc had been blinded by a spell from the Breton. He had been trying to strike at them, but now was weeping.
My hand found the Breton's throat. soon, his feet dangled in the air. "Explain this!" My voice sounded guttural, vicious, animalistic.
His choked voice was filled with contempt. "Put me down unless you want to be next."
My hand tightened on his throat. "Don't threaten me with your magic," I said, my voice gravelly, thick with rage. My fingers were almost touching around his windpipe.
One of the Imperials slammed the hilt of his sword into the back of my head. I dropped the Breton, and he fell to his knees, gasping for air. the other Imperial struck me against my left temple, but I never even responded. I heard myself say, my voice not entirely my own, "This is it."
