First rule: No killing.
The thought kept returning to Warren again and again as the highlander lay in a tangle of limbs and tails, running the events of the night through his head over and over. It happened in a series of instants, all seemingly disconnected in Warren's mind from one another. First, overseeing from his position on the central rock. Then, being called over to settle a dispute.
He didn't expect to find someone attempting to break the first rule. No one ever attempted to break the first rule.
His body reacted before his brain could. His sword flashed from its resting place, striking swiftly and terrible on the wrist. He felt seemingly no resistance from the meat or bone, and the implement of attack was rendered useless. For a moment, the scene was utter madness: Warren's features icily focused. Her eyes were lost in a haze of rage, unlike her usual self. And he was in a position many wished by none had seen to.
For a long moment, all of the noise turned to static. Warren surveyed the moment like a dream; She had fallen back, hugging the stump is disbelief. He had healers coming now, and she would likely be saved without further harm. His sword arm twitched.
The Grindstone had, to Warren's knowledge, always operated independently. No gil from the Syndicate, no sway from Ul'dah or the other city-states. They were allowed to operate on their own because, for all of their savagery and brutality, no one died in the Grindstone. By small miracles those who had knocked on death's door was always turned away thanks to the working hands of volunteer clerics and in all his time as a fighter and brief tenure as the Arbiter, no one had ever infringed upon that. Until today.
The old rules, the ones he knew back when Sigyn operated the show, were that breaking the first meant your abrupt and sudden death. If people wanted to kill for sport, they could toss their lot in with the Coliseum and fight on the Bloodsands. Warren considered that perhaps he had failed in that regard. The proud highlander woman and her axe would have meted justice differently; A hand can be reattached but a head could not. Something had stayed his hand and prevented that from happening. He wondered if perhaps it was that she had asked him to teach her. He wouldn't have to worry about that in the future.
Warren finally fell asleep feeling that he had failed the fighters of the Grindstone, and one in particular. Things would need to be made clear. Crystal clear. If anyone broke the rules in the future, especially the one that he felt was most sacred amongst them...
First rule: No killing.
The thought kept returning to Warren again and again as the highlander lay in a tangle of limbs and tails, running the events of the night through his head over and over. It happened in a series of instants, all seemingly disconnected in Warren's mind from one another. First, overseeing from his position on the central rock. Then, being called over to settle a dispute.
He didn't expect to find someone attempting to break the first rule. No one ever attempted to break the first rule.
His body reacted before his brain could. His sword flashed from its resting place, striking swiftly and terrible on the wrist. He felt seemingly no resistance from the meat or bone, and the implement of attack was rendered useless. For a moment, the scene was utter madness: Warren's features icily focused. Her eyes were lost in a haze of rage, unlike her usual self. And he was in a position many wished by none had seen to.
For a long moment, all of the noise turned to static. Warren surveyed the moment like a dream; She had fallen back, hugging the stump is disbelief. He had healers coming now, and she would likely be saved without further harm. His sword arm twitched.
The Grindstone had, to Warren's knowledge, always operated independently. No gil from the Syndicate, no sway from Ul'dah or the other city-states. They were allowed to operate on their own because, for all of their savagery and brutality, no one died in the Grindstone. By small miracles those who had knocked on death's door was always turned away thanks to the working hands of volunteer clerics and in all his time as a fighter and brief tenure as the Arbiter, no one had ever infringed upon that. Until today.
The old rules, the ones he knew back when Sigyn operated the show, were that breaking the first meant your abrupt and sudden death. If people wanted to kill for sport, they could toss their lot in with the Coliseum and fight on the Bloodsands. Warren considered that perhaps he had failed in that regard. The proud highlander woman and her axe would have meted justice differently; A hand can be reattached but a head could not. Something had stayed his hand and prevented that from happening. He wondered if perhaps it was that she had asked him to teach her. He wouldn't have to worry about that in the future.
Warren finally fell asleep feeling that he had failed the fighters of the Grindstone, and one in particular. Things would need to be made clear. Crystal clear. If anyone broke the rules in the future, especially the one that he felt was most sacred amongst them...
First rule: No killing.
![[Image: yEROfKO.png]](http://i.imgur.com/yEROfKO.png)
