[i] ‘’The sword in my hand has a story. It came into my possession at the Imperial City. Its blade’s markings and heavy type tell me that the blade was forged in Orsinium, no doubt by an Orc. It was probably meant to be part of a broadsword. Yet the hilt is a distinct type from Stros M’Kai, meant for a saber, and not a broadsword. The two parts were obviously meant for different weapons, yet fate has brought them together and bound them as one. It is an unusual weapon, for an unusual user.’’ [/i]

For some reason, possibly because of the incoming battle and the chances of death, Sadri had thought of his experiences, things he had gained, and lost, throughout his life. All in all, the things that made him Sadri Beleth. Perhaps he had thought of how his sword had come together just before he charged into battle, because he could empathize with it – he was a child of Dunmer, yet he was raised in Hammerfell. He had lived long, yet he was still young. He had enjoyed the companionship of women, and one Altmer that pretended to be a woman (then again, the experience wasn’t all that different from the companionship of a woman). He had prayed, at least in his youth, and he had sinned. He was once a librarian, a protector of knowledge, yet also he was once a scavenger, a usurper of it. And he was now a mercenary, a destroyer of knowledge. After all, every living being had a story to tell, and every life taken meant one less story to learn. He had learned, and forgotten, much – yet in the end he felt like he had wasted most of his time. All in all, he was Sadri Beleth. He was an unusual person, for an unusual life. ‘’Just like everyone else,’’ he muttered, moments before he charged into the fray.

It all unfolded very fast before Sadri’s eyes, in a manner that wasn’t all that surprising. This wasn’t his first melee. There was humor, there was tension, there was death and there was blood. Sadri felt disconnected from his body in the combat, and this wasn’t unusual. It happened to him in nearly all of his life-threatening situations. He figured that it was just his way of dealing with the instinctual fear of death. 

His fellow Dunmer had saved him from an incoming attacker. It felt as if he was in slow motion, yet it was also all too quick. His companions had done well, but it wasn’t over yet. He could still see two men – and one was dangerously close to him. As the man approached, Sadri let his broadsword dangle from his phantom hand and spin parallel to his body, letting it gain momentum unobstructed by muscles, while he slowly walked backwards to put some space between him and the man and increase the tension. The longer a man was in battle, the sooner he would seek to end it – no matter how courageous, this was just how things worked, and Sadri knew how to take advantage of this. It appeared as if he had given the man initiative.

The fellow, wearing an untreated leather jack over a woolen tunic dyed with saffron, raised his sword, obviously planning to bring it down on Sadri’s left shoulder. Before his arm could make a downwards movement, however, Sadri’s left arm immediately latched out and his hand grasped the man’s wrist tightly, putting enough pressure on it for the man to drop his sword. At the same moment, before the man could respond, Sadri’s broadsword, having attained enough momentum from the constant spinning motion of the phantom hand, suddenly landed itself clean on the man’s neck and lopped his head off, alongside the arm whose action was interrupted by Sadri. The Forsworn warrior’s body, arm, and head landed on the ground separately. Sadri spent a moment to admire his handiwork before he raised his head to catch the Forsworn away from him with his gaze. Whether the man would let himself get incinerated by the mage, fall victim to Sadri’s blade, decide to die at the hands of the others or surrender, he did not know – but he wanted to find out soon.