Warrior Shaman Flash Fiction

Thas stood in the bar indignant. He hated the stink of them. The people crowding around, hunched.

Stale beer, old wood, glaring eyes. A thug looked at him as they stood nose to nose. A snicker behind him. A drooling grin on the thug. A flash of silver in his hand. They didn’t know what he was. All they knew was that he was a Spellslinger.

That knife blade drove home into his gut, the thug grinning still, but it soon faded. Thas held on to his attacker’s wrist, holding the blade in place. He tried to withdraw, put panic made him frantic and easy to manipulate. Thas stood in the shadows of the bar, the torchlight flickered once, and the thug shrieked in terror at what he saw.

Two tiny blood orange dots of light where this monster’s eyes should be, hidden in the shifting darkness of his hood. Thas leaned in slowly, the expression of childlike terror comical on his attacker’s wizened and heavily scarred face. Finally, the coward made eye contact with Thas. The bar was silent as they waited for his words.

He released this victim, who fell to the floor, dropping his knife which slid several feet away. The thug scrambled backwards towards the exit, scooting back on his ass. Thas advanced, never speaking, blood pouring from the wound in his stomach, his eyes still glowing, trained on the thug. His wound’s blood flow has slowed to a trickle. Thas looked down at the thief, who had clearly wet himself, but not a single soul was laughing.

Thas stared down at this attacker and growled, “run.”

A brief clamor, sounds of panic and hurried feet. It wasn’t long until he found himself alone in the bar, standing in silence.

He didn’t smile.

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