{ Nonverbal Starters }

He was only vaguely aware of being lifted from the deck upon which he had fallen, his blood mingling with that of ally and foe alike as the battle raged on around him. He could hear the clashing of swords as if they were in the distance, rather than mere feet away – the sounds were dying down now, the turn of the tide in their favor by the time he had been struck low. 

Pain pierced and ebbed in the same tandem as a drum, seeming in one moment tolerable only to lance in the following beat. His body draped in the arms of another, Muharrem’s last truly coherent thought was a minor twinge of contempt for his opponent coming up from behind – if he were to die on the blade of a coward, his soul may never find rest. He had no choice – he would simply have to live.