It had been so long since the dust had settled. The Circle of Contemptβa boundless arena where many a duelist from across the known multiverse duked it out to claim superiority, for one reason or anotherβwas now nothing but a surface-level burial ground. What once had been corpses were now dingy, chipped bones, marked with the past beneath a smoke-filled, blood-red sky. The rest of the remains had withered into fine particles, whipped up and carried away in the occasional breeze to become a new grave somewhere else in the circle. Harder to decay and littering the ground were numerous weaponsβeach time-worn, a sickly brownish-red along the edges and ends, utterly useless. They were relics against the backdrop of arid, cracked, dead earth, brethren that shared a common factor with the lack of nature that surrounded them. Safe to say, there was nothing left. The heyday of battle and conquest had vanished, and now the vultures could feed.
A small body, wrapped in shadow and scraps of frayed cloth, hobbled through the vast grounds, shielding its hollow white eyes from plumes of dust that would kick up from gusts of wind every now and again. Its gait was lopsided, leading with a right foot that never dared to trade places in the race with its left. Through an unseen nostril, it struggled to regulate its breathing, having trouble keeping a steady pace, though it truly had nowhere to be. No one had been here in an uncountable number of years, certainly longer than the small humanoid creature could think of. As it limped forward, flat feet scraping long marks across the ground, the creature suddenly came to a stop, its featureless eyes staring ahead at a lone sword. The weapon was stabbed into the ground, its edge cracked and chipped, no longer the refined razor sharp it had once been. Still, for the creature, it was gold.
A rough vocalization of joy leapt forward from the creature's face as it jumped in place, punching its fists into the air in celebration. It sprung forward, playfully hopping across the ground until it arrived at the sword. In the deafening silence of a vast and empty space, the creature came to a stop and casually crouched next to the half-buried blade, studying its every detail. A few snorts escaped its face, thin and bony pitch-black fingers gingerly tapping at the jagged edge to test its sharpness. Whatever luster the blade had, it had left long ago in the heat of battle. Finally, the creature stood up, barely matching the sword in height, and grabbed at the sword's handle with both hands. With a huff, and a puff, and a grotesque, high-pitched groan, the creature wrenched the sword free from the dirt, tumbling backwards and collapsing to the ground.
It lay there, chest heaving from the expended effort. It was hard to tell what thoughts were coursing through its mind with such a blank face, but the creature lifted itself up and got to its knees. Clutched in its hand was the sword, and with the realization in two, suddenly, the creature was standing, swinging the sword haphazardly and with reckless abandon. It danced in the dusty air, hopping from one foot to the next, croaking out cries of happiness and amusement. It would pretend it was a strong and skilled warrior, imitating the stances of long-dead combatants whose faces it couldn't remember. Occasionally, it would stumble, trip, fall, rise again. With each mistake, it started adapting to the weight of the sword, and soon, fewer mistakes were being made.
But, then, it would stop and look out into the empty, bloodstained mass grave. The creature's body stilled, eyes scanning a dark horizon. Its body shifted, bringing the sword close to its chest, hugging it not tightly, but with care, precision, and sorrow.
A small body, wrapped in shadow and scraps of frayed cloth, hobbled through the vast grounds, shielding its hollow white eyes from plumes of dust that would kick up from gusts of wind every now and again. Its gait was lopsided, leading with a right foot that never dared to trade places in the race with its left. Through an unseen nostril, it struggled to regulate its breathing, having trouble keeping a steady pace, though it truly had nowhere to be. No one had been here in an uncountable number of years, certainly longer than the small humanoid creature could think of. As it limped forward, flat feet scraping long marks across the ground, the creature suddenly came to a stop, its featureless eyes staring ahead at a lone sword. The weapon was stabbed into the ground, its edge cracked and chipped, no longer the refined razor sharp it had once been. Still, for the creature, it was gold.
A rough vocalization of joy leapt forward from the creature's face as it jumped in place, punching its fists into the air in celebration. It sprung forward, playfully hopping across the ground until it arrived at the sword. In the deafening silence of a vast and empty space, the creature came to a stop and casually crouched next to the half-buried blade, studying its every detail. A few snorts escaped its face, thin and bony pitch-black fingers gingerly tapping at the jagged edge to test its sharpness. Whatever luster the blade had, it had left long ago in the heat of battle. Finally, the creature stood up, barely matching the sword in height, and grabbed at the sword's handle with both hands. With a huff, and a puff, and a grotesque, high-pitched groan, the creature wrenched the sword free from the dirt, tumbling backwards and collapsing to the ground.
It lay there, chest heaving from the expended effort. It was hard to tell what thoughts were coursing through its mind with such a blank face, but the creature lifted itself up and got to its knees. Clutched in its hand was the sword, and with the realization in two, suddenly, the creature was standing, swinging the sword haphazardly and with reckless abandon. It danced in the dusty air, hopping from one foot to the next, croaking out cries of happiness and amusement. It would pretend it was a strong and skilled warrior, imitating the stances of long-dead combatants whose faces it couldn't remember. Occasionally, it would stumble, trip, fall, rise again. With each mistake, it started adapting to the weight of the sword, and soon, fewer mistakes were being made.
But, then, it would stop and look out into the empty, bloodstained mass grave. The creature's body stilled, eyes scanning a dark horizon. Its body shifted, bringing the sword close to its chest, hugging it not tightly, but with care, precision, and sorrow.
