text: Andries cried in pain as he fell to his knees, coughing and flinging blood from his mouth onto the cold stone floor. Hot tears welled in his eyes as blood oozed from the scratches, cuts, and gashes. Many would have considered the magic that strengthened his body to be a blessing, it was the only reason he was alive after all. But to Andries, it simply was an excuse for more pain, a reason the world gave him that he simply couldn’t die and have it over with. He should have died when the thing that lay dead before him slammed its tentacle-like appendages into him, sending him crashing into the stone dungeon wall, he should have when he had been poisoned, he shouldn’t have lived when he was flung through buildings, he shouldn’t have survived the first time he had a sword rammed through his gut, much less the third, fourth, or fifth time. But there, there far below the ground the sun touched, far from the arms of those who loved him, there Andries breathed wearing wounds only befitting of a corpse. He tried to get back on his weary legs but slipped in the poodle of his blood that surrounded him, his face hitting the floor wet with his gore. For a moment he just laid there, but slowly he pulled his arms back towards his face. He pressed his fingers, each having been snapped at one point or another, against the stone. Carefully as to avoid slipping on the blood, he pushed himself up to his knees. Finally, as he got to his feet, he stifled a yelp as the powdered bone and meat held together by magic that he called a leg was forced to hold up his weight. He limped towards the thing he had slain, trying to put more weight on his less broken leg, and leaving a trail of crimson behind him. Its fleshy body was bulbous with barbed tentacles protruding from it. Two sickeningly person like legs stuck out at one end of it, and a head with two many teeth on the other. A sword was embedded in its stomach, the hilt simple white, and the blade silver. His crocked, swollen fingers slowly wrapped around the hilt. When he had first held this weapon, he had felt honored. It had been the first time he had ever been chosen for anything. That memory of honor and pride did go some ways in strengthening his spirit, but not far. He went to lift his “good” leg but found the pain that flared through what remained of his other leg unbearable, so he stepped back on the floor. Instead, he slowly, and gently placed his bad leg on the monster’s stomach and gripped the hilt of the sword. His fingers cried out in rebellion, and as he pressed his foot against the dead things gut his legs joined them. It was still more bearable than forcing all his weight on it, however. Gradually the blade began to slide free, the deep purple ichor that covered it gushing out of the monster's wound. There was a splash of monster blood as the tip of the blade was pulled free, and Andries stumbled backward, pain filling his body with each step. The tears began to run down his face, but he began to walk forward, towards the door that led deeper into the dungeon.