I was lost in amber like an insect slowly drowning in the fresh spilled blood of a mountain pine. Tilting my glass slowly back and forth I watched the whisky swirl, slow and sweet, not as sticky as the sap that pulsed through a dryad’s veins, but every bit as dangerous. At least for me.
I had climbed out of the bottle once, years ago—put my drinking behind me and shaped myself into someone I could be proud of again. A champion of justice, a slayer of kings, a monster who killed worse monsters. Blood. I had spilled my share and more, so very very much more.
My name is Aral and I am, or was, a Blade of Justice. I thought I knew who I was and what I was and where I needed to go, but now I’m not so sure.
*I started poking at this today. Not sure if I’ll continue, but it feels like it might be time.