Happy Life
Kneeling in a makeshift shelter—a crater left no doubt by an artillery shell or destructive sorcery decades ago—and once again gazing at the Alarian knives, Lester recalls the rich collection of edged weapons displayed at his home.
"And why didn't I bring my own?"—he admires the ring and immediately answers himself.—"Because I wanted to look splendid on this day."
"No, that's not the reason at all,"—a fragmentary subconscious objects.—"You love settling matters face to face; only then can you take pleasure and see in your opponent's eyes what they truly are—in their final moment, before those eyes go dark and the soul departs into the cosmos."
Not bothering to argue with the nagging little worm, he carefully examines each rider on the field, devising strategies for future clashes.
"Horse—sever the tendon, finish the rider in the fall. Pegasus—close the distance at any cost and duck under the wing. Wyvern—same thing, but you'll have to weave. Spider—positioning on the flanks is safe but ineffective; the head is slow to turn—one or two solid slashes across the eyes will do. It tracks movement well."—He didn't get a chance to observe a hydra today, but surely there one must act according to the situation; the price of a mistake is high.
He coughs from medusa venom, clutching at the gap in his armor. It's not yet clear how, but countermeasures will need to be devised for these flaws as well.
His hand switches the weapon to a reverse grip, his chilled, bloodshot eyes behind a deathly mask continue to methodically scan each fighter.