(Note: I haven’t tried my hand at writing a short story in a long while. Consider this my newfound attempt to be creative once more. Oh yeah, and it’s a story about heraldry and Frankenstein-ish undertones, so how can you possibly resist?)

The blood runs cold as it trickles from my open brow. I have never felt cold blood spew from my body. I ponder briefly whether it is because my fright turns it cool or if the bitter winter is freezing it as it oozes out of the wound in my head. Either way, I’m disoriented, I know that much. Somewhere around me I hear screams from my platoon. I hear a mixture of death cries and calls for help. I hear shouts of joy for a blow well struck, followed by that sudden realization that it did no damage. I struggle for sight, but either the blood has covered my eyes and frozen them open and blind, or the blow to my head was so hard I cannot blink or regain vision. I’m thinking I should play dead, but I fear this creature will see thru my ruse. Besides, what kind leader plays dead?

Where’s my sword? I feel around the ground frantically, until a blade cuts my finger – this must be it. Sliding my hand down its sharp edge, I grip the handle tightly, ornate and crafted centuries ago by my ancestors. Should I swing wildly or stay composed until I feel this ugly ogre’s breath on my neck? Composure, I’ll opt for composure.

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