Doesn’t matter in a fight how much you planned, how extensive your process, how minute the details. The moment you get punch in the face, everything goes disarray -- Anon Guest
The heat of battle is no place to be taking notes. He never got out of the student mentality of learning while doing. It was an interesting mental trick, to keep up the fight and evolve strategy at the same time.
Note to self, he thought as he covered his wound with his free hand. Animals have three attacks.
He could only hope that these Dire Weasels didn't also have rabies. That would be something to deal with. Rabies was slow. Claws and teeth were fast. Fuss about the fast. What was your mistake then, Lord Tiefling? Your mistake was reaching for a melee weapon while you are weak enough to perish from one hit. It did not help that this critique was in the voice of Master Bai.
Get out of my head, I shamed you, he thought. Even without the Master to barb him, he could still harm himself in varied ways. And didn't a demon-marked shameful son deserve apt punishment? Ach, his head was a mess. Back out in the real world, some other random assholes were helping the beleaguered Kobold that he had foolishly leaped in to assist.
"Flank! Flank," he ordered. "They can't bite in two directions at once." One dispatched, he used one of the others as a meat shield and kept his distance from the rest of the Dire Weasels.
At least it was over quick. Adrenoline wore off and he realised he'd suffered far more proportional damage than he should have. Still alive, but halfway dead. He clutched at his wound and tried not to topple.
The sapphire-hued Dragonkin warrior by his side prevented his fall, and only then noticed what she was touching. "Euw. I touched a dirty Tiefling..."
Hell of a first impression, Fraulein... "Excuse your ass, I bathe regularly."
Apparently the rest of them thought this fight meant they were all friends now. Friends. Ha! Tieflings didn't get friends. The best he could hope for was people who found him convenient in the moment. Whatever. It did mean that someone else was buying the drinks and for that, he was in.
They went around introducing themselves. Names he would never use because, when he became inconvenient to know, it would hurt less. Before he knew it, it was his turn.
"And what about you, tall, dark, and incomprehensible?"
Damn. Too much accent. Though it sometimes helped to be a stupid foreigner, he was going to be hanging out with these fellow idiots for a pace of time. He needed to be understood. He lightened it up by degrees. Oathbound, he had to tell the truth. But, not yet safe in his homeland -six hundred miles to go- he had to obfuscate his name. "You may know me as... Ko--" damnit. He almost said one of his real names. He skipped some syllables. "--chis." Another moment of panic, and the first thing to pop out of his overtaxed brain was, "Shaydden."
Fuck. The very specific name of bastards all over Whitekeep. Just hang a sign on your back that shouts, NEXT DEMON LORD, sniped his father's voice in his head.
Yet... the others didn't notice. They didn't put it together.
The freshly-nicknamed Kosh kept himself in the middle of the group as they headed towards a bar. He was unused to trusting but, just this once, he might be able to trust in the safety in numbers; and the faith of idiots.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / burnel12]
If you like my stories, please Check out my blog and Follow me. Or share them with your friends!
Send me a prompt [71 remaining prompts!]