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Get up, little brother! You’ll not let this puny son of the snow best you!
Annû rolled to his knees, his brother’s words ringing in his ears. Or rather, the remembrance of similar words, urging him on in various seamen’s taverns when cups too numerous had been drunk, and a jest of Carandu’s taken ill. ‘Well, at least, I’m not drunk,’ he thought, heaving himself to his feet. His gut, tight with pain from the Lossoth’s kick, protested the move; he gagged back the bile rising in his throat.
‘Up, you dark hearted dog!’ Annû growled as reached down with his left hand. Grabbing the man by his weathered overcoat, he hauled him to his feet. For a brief moment his hard grey eyes sought to pierce the other’s, wondering how low this specimen of man had sunk. ‘Shadow scum!’ he spat out, pushing the man roughly back in disgust. The man squinted at Annû, his blue eyes glinting with a feral light. The Elf could smell the thick, heavy smell of congealing blood coming from him; that stain on the scarf he wore about his face already turning dark in the air.
The Elf moved in closer to the man. His fists were balled, and he made a series of feints countered easily by the Lossoth. The man was a skilled fighter, taking the opportunity to jab the Elf hard followed by a cross punch to the jaw with his right fist. At one point, Annû reeled back from a particularly hard blow, head ringing. Shaking his head to bring the multiple images of the Lossoth into focus, Annû rushed at the man, grabbing him about the neck with his left arm and delivering a series of jabs to his face and chest. He could feel the man’s body slacken against him, as if he were about to collapse. Annû loosened his grip, thinking to let the man fall.
Against his left side, he felt the sharp, cold point of the man’s knife as it touched his skin . . .
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