Fists Of Fiction

  Thorn lay on his back, his whole body, from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head, throbbed in agony. He stared at the clouds, blinking back the tears, when a face appeared in view. Elara, his partner, long black hair, olive skin, brown eyes. “You should thank me for disarming that Skalgrin,” she chirped. Thorn hissed in pain. “Instead of impaling me with its spear, it just pounded me with its fists. I swear its hands were the size of boulders. He laid a hand on his stomach. “How about healing me…so we can leave.” She shook her head. “Already tried,” she pressed her hands on his stomach, and it tenses, grimacing in pain. It took all his strength to not pass out again. She lifted his shirt. “See that purple spot.” He craned his neck and saw a purple splotch the size of a fist on his stomach. “Means you’re bleeding inside,” her expression soured. “You don’t have too long.” Thorn let his head fall back, recalling earlier today, when Elara appeared at his door with two soldie...