write 30 word swordfight in this identical writing style. In...

Prompt

write 30 word swordfight in this identical writing style. In the shadow of a crumbling stone wall, the lone figure sat huddled against the morning chill of Caldora’s low market. The thief pulled his tattered cloak made from a patchwork of different cloths tighter around his form. His head rested between bony arms, face hidden from the indifferent crowd that flowed past like water around an unmoving stone. No one paid heed to the filth and trash that took up space in the greatest kingdom of all. Merchants and nobility, their pockets full of coin equaling the size of their fat bellies, would saddle by paying no heed to the scum beneath them. Until they appeared. The two figures moved through the current of market goers who made their way past burlap awnings sagging beneath the weight of overnight rain, and splashed through mud puddles and livestock dung as they made their way to the middle of the market square. The thief's head lifted slowly. Dirt-crusted fingers pushed back the matted brown hair from his face, revealing eyes that didn't match the squalor of his surroundings. They were clear and sharp, the pale blue of the winter sky, and they fixed upon the moving pair with unmistakable recognition. Keric had seen their type before, conscription officers working the low market for fresh bodies to feed the northern campaigns. He pressed deeper into his alcove, willing the shadows to swallow him as Sergeant Garus moved past him with the stiff backed gait of a man who'd spent decades in the king's service. His scarred face bore the evidence of battles survived, though his left eye hadn't fared as well. Behind Garus trailed his scribe, Pellin. A thin man who clutched a leather satchel to his narrow chest like a shield, his eyes darting nervously between the market stalls, flinched when the fish vendor's shout rang out next to him. Despite his obvious discomfort, Pellin's chin remained tilted upward, his expression a poor mask of hiding contempt for the vermin that inhabited the low market. The sergeant stopped to examine a group of young men unloading grain sacks. Pellin opened his leather book and removed a quill from the satchel as Garus circled them, assessing with his good eye. Pathetic. Keric shifted around the corner of his alcove. Those boys, barely men, would be ripped from their homes under cover of darkness, given no choice in their fate and their families would awaken to find nothing but a small purse of silver and some flowery parchment bearing the royal seal left with a heartfelt thanks from a king who'd never know their names, proclaiming the "honor" of providing the kingdom with another soldier. All horseshit. Keric had seen the results of the king's "honor" limping through the streets. Men missing limbs, their sanity fecal. The lucky ones died quickly in battle. The unlucky returned as haunted shells to families who couldn't understand what they'd become. And for what? So nobles could squabble over timber rights in the northern territories? Garus leaned back, his lips almost brushing Pellin's ear, whispering as the sergeant's weathered finger extended toward three of the boys. Pellin's quill danced across his parchment, the scratch audible even through the market's chaos. A merchant nearby spat on the ground. "Heard they lost three hundred men at Rorik's Pass last month." He murmured to the neighboring vendor's booth. Pellin's head jerked upward, hollow eyes tightening. His unhealthy pallid countenance became frigid as his expression contorted beneath the murmurs of the surrounding crowd. The merchant paled, quickly turning back to his wares. The throng surrounding them stirred uncomfortably, lowering their eyes as they resumed their activities. "Won't be paying anyone off today, will you, sergeant?" Keric muttered under his breath as he rose from his nook, feeling the leather wrapped handle of his blade beneath his sleeve. He felt it before anyone else heard it. The distant vibration of the Cathedral's massive bronze bell began to swing, carrying from the west and stretching across the distant farming fields. It traveled through the earth beneath him. Up through the soles of his worn boots, and into his bones. The sensation enveloped him, spreading outward like an invisible tide, rippling down the cobblestone streets and climbing the front of the market buildings. He looked for Mirela in the crowd, her dark brown eyes meeting his, and he winked at her. She nodded and slowly started forward. Timing her steps with each second as the first deep, resonant toll of the Cathedral bell rolled across the market like distant thunder. Seven seconds of distraction was all Keric needed. The marketplace blurred around Keric as he slid from his alcove, pulled his hood over his head, and became one with the shifting mass of bodies. Ten seconds before the next toll. The worn soles of his boots pressed silently against the damp cobblestones as he pushed past a woman balancing a large basket of turnips, and children who ran by with sticks for swords clutched in their hands. Dogs barked over the momentary silence between tolls as he slipped past an arguing market staller and his patron, emerging five paces closer to his target. Three more steps. Two. Mirela's timing was flawless. As the second toll gathered its breath, she stumbled forward, her basket tipping dramatically. Apples tumbled across the muddy ground, rolling beneath the feet of startled market-goers. She crashed directly into Pellin, her arms flailing as she fell against his thin frame. "Watch where…" Pellin's words choked off as Mirela's weight knocked him backward. The second toll thundered across the marketplace, deeper than the previous one. Keric felt it resonate through his chest as the harmonic vibration peaked. His eyes were fixed on Garus's coin purse. The frequency seal, an enchanted metal clasp designed to respond only to its owner's touch, had found its resonant frequency. "Perfect," Keric whispered. Magic, like everything else in nature, had its vulnerabilities. "Get your hands off me!" Pellin shrieked, his scholarly composure shattering. His ink-stained fingers pushed against Mirela's shoulders, his face contorted with disgust. "You filthy street animal!" Mirela clung to him dramatically, her hand catching in the straps of his satchel as she pretended to regain her balance. "So sorry, sir! Clumsy me!" "Unhand me this instant!" Pellin kicked at her shins, sending her sprawling into the mud. Documents spilled from his partially opened satchel, conscription orders scattering across the damp ground. "You brainless cow!" Pellin's voice rose to a shriek as he scrambled to recover his papers. Mirela's face transformed, the apologetic expression vanishing. “Who are you calling a cow, you royal arse licker?" The crowd around them stilled, the sudden confrontation drawing all eyes. Garus stepped forward, his weathered face darkening. "Mind your tongue, girl." "Or what?" Mirela spat. “You'll send me north to die for your precious king as well? Garus's response came without hesitation. His gauntleted backhand caught Mirela across the face, snapping her head to the side. Blood welled from a split in Mirela's lip as she collapsed into the mud. Her fingers trembled against her face where his hand had struck, the cold metal leaving an angry welt already darkening against her olive skin. Market-goers retreated, forming a widening circle around the confrontation. "Anything else you'd like to say?" Garus loomed over her, his single eye regarded her with the detached interest of a man contemplating whether to crush an insect beneath his boot. Mirela's gaze never wavered. She gathered the coppery taste pooling in her mouth and launched it directly at him. It landed with a wet splat against his uniform, crimson rivulets trickling down the polished breastplate bearing the king's crest. Garus looked down at the bloody stain, his expression unchanging. He wiped it away with a gloved hand, examining the smear across his fingers before flicking it onto the ground beside her. "That all you got, one eye?" Something shifted behind Garus's face as he crouched down, his armor creaking as he brought his face level with hers. His breath reeked of onions and stale ale as he leaned in close enough for only her to hear. "I'm just getting started," he whispered. Before Mirela could react, his armored knee shot upward, connecting with her face with a sickening crunch. Her head snapped backward, fresh blood spraying from her shattered nose as she collapsed into the mud. The coin purse hung like ripe fruit from Garus's belt, swinging with each brutal kick he delivered to Mirela's curled form. Her arms wrapped protectively around her head as the sergeant's boot connected with her shoulder, driving her deeper into the mud. "I'll teach you some respect, girl," Garus snarled, spittle flying from his lips. His good eye bulged with rage, face flushed crimson beneath his weathered scars. "Insulting an officer of the crown warrants arrest!" The market's attention was locked on the spectacle, exactly as planned. No eyes watched Keric as he glided forward, knife sliding into his palm as the morning light caught the silver blade. Three steps to the target. Two. One. The cathedral's third toll began its crescendo, building toward its peak resonance as Garus raised his boot for another kick. Mirela's eyes flicked momentarily to Keric's, a split-second of recognition that turned to a slight smile. Blood trickled from her head as she curled tighter, playing her role perfectly. Now. His blade flashed upward, slicing through the purse strap with surgical precision as the market filled with the boom of the bells tolling. The frequency seal, typically capable of delivering a shocking curse to any unauthorized touch, remained dormant during that fractional moment of interference as the coin purse dropped into Keric's waiting palm. "Sir," Pellin's reedy voice cut through the commotion as he clutched his recovered papers. "We're drawing too much attention. It might be wise to ease up on the girl. Garus stepped back from Mirela, chest heaving as he wiped his perspiring forehead with his surcoat and twisted, suddenly aware of the spectacle he'd created. He cleared his throat, the sound loud against the quiet of the fear and judgment of the square. "Get up," he said. She stirred, raising her muddy and blood streaked face. The cut on her lip had swollen, but her eyes remained calm. "I said get up!" Garus barked. Pulling her to her wavering feet as Keric melted backward into the crowd, heart hammering against his ribs. Garus spat on the ground near Pellin's shoes, causing him to recoil backward with revulsion. "Consider yourself lucky that the king's soldiers are showing clemency today," He took one more breath before turning to the onlookers, squaring his shoulders. "And consider this a warning to whoever else spreads insidious talk against our great king Orren Khaston, or those who serve him,” he proclaimed, voice rising. His hand rested on his sword hilt, knuckles white under the tension. "Any who speak against him speak against Cadora itself! Such treasonous whispers will not be tolerated in these streets or any other within our borders!" Pellin kept his form low, trying to draw the attention away from him. “Powerful speech, sir, but I think we should go. I fear we've overstayed our welcome." Garus snorted. “Nonsense, Pellin. If anything, we've put the fear of the gods into these lowly wretches." His eye darted across the hostile faces surrounding them. "But I agree. I do not wish to stay here a moment longer in this forsaken place." Pellin nodded, stuffing his book back into his satchel with eager haste. His eyes never left the surrounding crowd as he backed away, following in Garus's wake. As the last bell toll faded into memory, Keric felt an unexpected vibration emanating from the purse. The leather bag trembled in his palm, its intensity growing with each passing heartbeat. Something's wrong. The enchanted metal clasp hummed to life, its protective enchantment triggering as the initial pulse erupted in a piercing shriek that spread outward from the radiating pouch, while Keric reflexively tried to press it against his chest to muffle the noise. People seized up in waves as the magical effect rippled outward through the crowd. Bodies became living statues, expressions caught in moments of surprise, fear, or mundane concentration. Only their eyes moved, darting frantically within immobilized faces. “Shit, Shit,” Keric muttered, trying to rip the clasp from its place on the purse. Garus turned toward the abrupt high-pitched whine emanating from behind, just beyond the influence of his stolen pouch. His hand instinctively reached for the empty space at his belt. His single eye widened in terror. Keric felt the pressure against his skin but remained otherwise unaffected. The high-pitched wail that had alerted Garus registered only as pressure waves against his body, the actual sound lost to his ears. "Gods damn it! My purse!" Garus bellowed, face contorting with rage as he charged forward, steel rasped against leather as he withdrew his sword, the blade catching sunlight. "Thief! Stop this instant!” “Shit,” Keric said again. Body froze in fear as Garus rushed toward him. It wasn’t supposed to go this way; he had planned everything perfectly. But there was one thing Keric had got right. It's that magic, like everything else in the world, had its vulnerabilities.