Board Thread:Roleplay Ideas/@comment-26453572-20160714141356/@comment-26210095-20160715190415

Aerion relished the feeling of battle. The smell of blood and salt in the air. The feel of the blade as it flew in the air to slash at a man's throat. The almost liberating feeling to have the ability to kill. He was drunk on battle, but his head had never felt clearer.

He was fighting a Pirate Lord near Tolfalas. He was a cunning fighter, but few could match the Bastard of Pelargir.

He slashed and hacked with his two swords. He had disarmed his opponent, and was preparing for the final blow, when he felt a burning throughout his body. He doubled over and screamed in agony. The pirate, taking advantage of his weakness, took his ugly scimitar and struck him in the shoulder. Stumbling, he fell face first into the water surrounding his ship.

Darkness enveloped him as he sunk deep. His chain mail weighed him down. He struggled to reach the surface, but slowly sunk to the bottom. He closed his eye, feeling death around him.

Aerion gasped as he felt lift within him. He looked up at the blue. "Am I dead, or still drowning?" He wondered. No. It was the sky. He had washed up on a beach. He looked around him. "How did I get here?" He looked around with a start, but was rewarded with a flash of pain from some wound on his shoulder. He got up, roared in pain, then fell down. He slowly tried again, leaning on a piece of driftwood. He slowly got up. Using the driftwood as a staff, he slowly walked along the coastline looking for anything, anybody.