Rule 32: Enjoy the little things in life.

At last, the battle was won.  The enemy was defeated, and the great Warrior had his victory.  At long last, his campaign against the evil was complete. But at what cost?  The Warrior looked over his shoulder to where she stood to see the joyous look of victory on her face.  But she was not too be seen.  He frantically searched and after a few seconds he laid eyes upon her.  She was lying on the floor, crumpled, blood seeping from her wounds.

The Warrior ran over to her, not bothering to sheathe his sword, instead carrying it with him still drawn.  As he approached her, he could see what had happened; a stray spell had hit her, for it was not by a blade her injuries were made.  He shook his head in defiance, for such a great victory could not happen the same time at this terrible tragedy.  He knelt down and gathered her into his arms, her long auburn hair getting tangled in his armor, her crimson blood spilling onto his hands as he tried to stem the bleeding.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t good enough” she tried to say as she choked.  He reassured her that nothing was her fault and she had performed beyond perfection.  ”Remember when we met?  Who knew it would end like this?” She whispered.  He nodded.  Of course he remembered when they met.  He had been a mercenary, hired to defend a village from raiders, she was a wandering Ranger, passing through.  Together they defended the village, and after seeing each other’s prowess in battle, decided to join up together.

“Don’t try to speak,” he said, “a cleric will be by soon, you’ll be fine.”  They both knew he was lying. “Shh, be still,” she said, “It was good, not a bad end to a life spent wandering. Goodbye, my love.”  He was unable to say anything.  The Warrior simply held his Ranger and watched the life leave her eyes.

“What’ll he do now?” One of his allies said. “Endure.  Endure as he’s always done,” another said.  For indeed he had endured.  There were many friends buried beneath the ground they traveled.  But this time was different.  No one was sure what would become of the Warrior.

He moved his hand to close her eyes, removing it from one of her wounds.  The blood from it spilled out, onto his blade.  He closed her eyes and goes to wipe the blood from his blade, but at the moment he touched it, a faint magical sensation ripples through his arm and into the sword.  Without any explanation, the sword starts to change.  It grows longer, thinner, sharper. More like her.  But the most drastic change is that the blade itself became the auburn color of her hair.  He did not understand but he accepted.  He cut off a lock of her hair and wrapped it around the hilt.  It was fitting that since he was a different man, so should his weapon, a veritable extension of himself, also be different.

He gently laid her down and stood up.  His allies, having seen what happened, offered no claims of “It’ll be ok” or “I understand”, but rather bowed their head in reverence and respect for the fallen: the Ranger, and all their lost.  For on that day, the price of victory hit them all like a resounding gong.