86

Death is a queer existence. Just the day before, I was birthed. My intellect and cunning mind, my silence that others took as weakness. It all was just a day ago. Mere hours that could be tracked on a simple board.

But here I am. My sword is broken, the slime whose purpose was to sneak attack any attacker that made it past mine defenses... even the loyal wolf, who lay so faithful to my cause.

It is gone.

They are gone.

And here I stand on the thread of existence, fangs had torn my arm to shreds. Another claw had ripped a hole through my leg. And her face shows contempt for my mere attempt at life.

I am under my lord. If he wished me dead, then I would die. But this... kept forcefully alive by an enemy... I would sooner cut my own throat then let her see a single hint of submission.

So why? With the devotion in my eyes, should I not be dead? 

I scowl.