The Mind's Eye: A Warhammer Age of Sigmar Short Story

The Mind’s Eye

Sir Rorick Fain trod through the hall, his armor lightly clinking with each step. His left hand rested on the pommel of his sword as he walked. The staff of the palace moved to the side at his approach, nodding their heads respectfully and offering polite, if quiet, greetings. He nodded in kind if somewhat quicker as he moved. Rorick had been called from his training to the court of Duchess Elarell, to whom he was sworn, and his code dictated he not waste a moment in answering her summons. Guards opened the doors, and his name was called as he crossed the threshold from hall to court, he detected an odd scent. It seemed one of rot. As a warrior, he had fought several battles and knew the smell of decay, though he found it peculiar that the scent should find him so close to the duchess’ hall. Rorick nearly halted in his approach to the duchess. While she stood in all her regality; a woman of sharp bone structure and classical beauty, hair maintained into a bouffant of elegance that fell across her shoulders and framed her face, and dressed in finery of cream colors and a tasteful selection of jewelry upon her fingers, it was not her appearance that had nearly stopped him, but the visitor to the court. Duchess Elarell stood near her throne and by her side, clad in cerulean armor, staff in a hand of bone, was Arkhan the Black, Mortarch of Sacrament, second only to Nagash in the realm of Shyish. He moved to kneel and Arkhan halted him with a simple gesture of his other skeletal hand.

“There is no need for that, Sir Fain,” Arkhan said, his voice was as soft as a whisper and as powerful as thunder.

Rorick adjusted his posture and still inclined his head to be respectful, “It is an honor to be in your presence.”

“Ever respectful and dutiful, just as I have been told,” Arkhan replied with a light chuckle.

The skeletal visage could not offer facial expressions, but through voice and slight tilts of the head, the full spectrum of emotion shone through the most famous servant of the god of death.

“Our lands, and Shyish itself, are in danger,” Duchess Elarell spoke, her voice was mellifluous yet also struck with the authority of her station like a smith’s hammer to an anvil, “as the forces of Chaos march toward us from the eastern forest, polluting our land and deign to challenge the will of Nagash.”

His left hand gripped the hilt of his sword a bit tighter as he did his utmost to restrain his fury in the presence of two such figures who did not need to see the inner fire of a warrior.

“She speaks the truth, Sir Fain,” said Arkhan, “and I have come to enlist you and those who will fight alongside you to meet this foe.”

Rorick’s heart beat like a drum as he felt a rush of excitement. “Will you fight by our side, my lord?”

Arkhan chuckled again, and he swore that the sound almost came across as condescending, though he suspected it was just his imagination. The notion of one of such immensity serving alongside a knight such as himself was rather fanciful.

“These are just one of many lands under attack, and I must bring word to their keepers too,” Arkhan said, “but I have faith in you and your strength, Sir Fain.”

While the words were ones of confidence, he felt greater certainty that they had been spoken with a pitiable tone. Perhaps he was expected to fall in battle. The Mortarch of Sacrament was great in knowledge as well as power, so he might have gleaned Rorick’s future. He did not fear death though, as few who lived in Shyish did. It was just another moment, an inevitability that would be met with dignity. Despite his acceptance of his mortality, he did not intend to die to the forces of Chaos.

“I will do my duty and see your enemies slain,” he said, speaking to both Duchess Elarell and Arkhan the Black.



He gathered his closest allies, including fellow knights and sworn armsmen. The forces numbered only a few hundred total, yet he felt confident their strength would be sufficient. Rorick looked to Sir Bernard Ursh and Sir Erasmus Ilk, two knights he had fought alongside for nearly a decade now. Sir Ursh was an imposing figure, clad in his shining armor, though he preferred to wield a tremendous axe and decapitate his foes rather than face sword against sword, Rorick could not begrudge the man his eccentricity. Sir Ilk was far lither by comparison and wielded a pair of short swords, known to practically dance across the battlefield as he felled his opponents.

“So, it is true then, eh? Arkhan the Black came with warning for the duchess,” Sir Ursh asked.

“Bernie, do you think Rorick would lie?” Sir Ilk teased his larger friend.

“Do not speak for me, you dandy. I was merely requesting confirmation,” Sir Ursh bristled at the other’s words.

Rorick laughed, though he tried to hide it. The two dueled with words more than most knights did with weapons.

“It is true. We will seek out the invaders and either send them howling back to their lairs or, more likely, send them directly to their terrible masters as failures,” he stated.

Both of his friends nodded in approval. Soon, the forces turned, preparing to move as one. However, before the first steps could be taken, Sir Ursh let out a grunt of annoyance.

“The wizard...” he heard his friend murmur.

Tiberius of the Grey Shroud was a slightly hunched figure who plodded along with some haste, their staff clutched tight served as much a symbol of their profession as a means of balance. Tiberius was considered mad by most, but his magic was still of great use to the duchess, and as such he retained a position in her court.

“How fare you this day, Tiberius?” Rorick asked, if only to be cordial.

“We are but beasts, things in tattered cloth and ragged of mind,” the wizard growled out his strange ramblings.

“Gnawing at the dried carcasses of enemies like vermin.”

Rorick nodded, as if he understood, “Well, do not let us keep you from your tasks. We go now to face a terrible enemy.”

“As do I,” the wizard replied, in a moment of lucidity.

“I apologize, perhaps I misunderstood. Are you claiming that you will be traveling with us?” He asked, not hiding his surprise.

“I claim nothing. My place will be with you, to face the servants of that horrid pantheon,” Tiberius practically spat out the words.

Rorick looked to Sir Ursh and Sir Ilk, the pair shrugged simultaneously. He could have argued with the aged figure, clad in their grey robes, with baubles and trinkets hanging from their belt and staff, but he knew from experience that one did not win an argument with Tiberius. He resigned himself to the company of the magic user and moved his forces out.

***

Ikarem Hesh looked about the blighted landscape with disgust; gnarled trees and thin patches of grey grass were the majority of what his eyes took in, though he occasionally saw a crow flitter about the air, its shrieking call more akin to a funeral dirge than a declaration of anything nearing the beauteous sounds of other birds. The appalling landscape sat beneath a grey sky that further mocked his senses as he moved ahead. He was accustomed to sprawling lands of color and life that served to please his sense of sight, sound, and smell. He knew lands where he could pluck fruit from trees and enjoy the crispness of the skin and sweetness of its juices. While he had seen no fruit, were he to, he would not dare taste it. The very notion of any food from this place reaching his lips made him shudder with disgust. It was rare he found a sensation he did not enjoy, yet Shyish tested him with each step.

“Do not tarry, we must pass through these lands and move forward. Nagash has vacated these lands,” Syllame whispered to him from atop their steed.

He glanced over his shoulder. The Daemonette, wrapped in dark leather, its right arm ending in a crustacean’s claw, its left more like that of a human, had a figure that was an amalgam of masculine and feminine features, both beautiful and hideous. Its legs were double bent and terminated in hooves. Wherever the daemon went, a scent of perfume and butchery followed. Ikarem breathed deep that scent rather than take in the scent of decay that surrounded him.

“I would rather have crossed the lands of the Mortarch of Blood, at least I am told that she is beautiful. I would like something to look at that is not dead and rotting,” he sneered.

“The followers of Nurgle are probably more at home in this place.”

“Do not speak of them in my presence,” Syllame hissed out their forked tongue, and their steed seemed to mimic the action.

He did not argue with the daemon, though for the first time, he wished he had a cloak to cover himself. Ikarem wore little in the way of coverings. His body was sculpted and tremendous, and he saw no reason to hide it from others. It would be an object of envy or intimidation, depending upon who saw him. He also did not fear being wounded, as pain was simply another sensation to enjoy. Shyish, however, made him feel a sense of disgust that he wished to shield himself against.

Behind him, the steps and raucous sounds of The Mirthful March, his warband, rang out. Some sang about the various pleasures they had felt and would again, while others called out to Slaanesh. A few trod in silence but took pleasure from the sounds of the rest. He had an eclectic bunch with him, as variety was the spice of life. Amongst those who followed him were the skilled Blissbarb Archers, that would bring death from a distance, as well as those who sought to usurp his position as leader of The Mirthful March, and he welcomed the occasional challenge. There were also the lumbering homunculi who shuffled along, often put to laborious tasks when the warband halted or thrown at the enemy as hulking, slow, but useful chaff.

“We will leave this land behind us for something beautiful,” he muttered to himself and continued to march forward.

***

The lush forests around Rorick were, at the moment, tranquil. Thoughts of how, even as he and the forces behind him made their way further east, the beautiful lands he swore to protect might be suffering at the hands of Chaos filled him with righteous fury. He was no stranger to Chaos, as a lad, barely out of his time as a squire he had faced figures clad in hides of beasts and branded with the eight-pointed star. They had been barely better than beasts themselves, howling and braying. His mind played images of the gallant men who fought to hold back the barbaric warriors of Chaos that day. Rorick frowned as flashes of claws and blood played across the surface of his mind, yet he did not recall to what manner of animal the claws belonged.

“The mirror cracks,” Tiberius whispered, and while the hooded figure faced ahead as he plodded along, he spoke directly to Rorick.

“Some lingering aspect of Chaos? If so, why only now does it show itself? Or perhaps it is something caused by the new foes we face?” He inquired.

Tiberius cackled and it became a ragged cough. The old spellcaster wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, and Rorick swore he saw blood, though the hand disappeared beneath the robes of the wizard. He wondered if disease had taken the wizard and addled his mind along with it.

“We make camp,” he called out. He did not know when they would face the forces of Chaos, yet they had already traveled far and he would not risk the health of the wizard, whether or not they were mad.



Rorick looked into the flames of the campfire as the last of the tents were assembled.

“You should not let the wizard’s ramblings get to you,” Sir Ursh appeared at his side, sitting beside him.

The large man was chewing at a bit of meat and offered him some, though he declined. His appetite had vanished as his mind was plagued with thoughts that he did not fully comprehend.

“Have you ever found your thoughts muddled? As though they were not entirely accurate?” He asked.

“My thoughts are very clear, my friend. They are on a good battle, good food, and good friends,” Sir Ursh offered him a grin. Though the bits of meat between his teeth did nothing to improve his appetite, it did improve his mood.

“I just find myself questioning things,” he admitted.

“Be wary that road you walk,” said Sir Ilk as he joined their conversation, accepting an offer of meat from Sir Ursh.

“Doubt can be medicine in small amounts, to keep us from being swallowed by naivete, but poison in large quantities.”

“Aye, for once, the words that tumble out of his mouth make sense,” said Sir Ursh.

“I am a philosopher as well as a warrior, while you are barely the latter,” Sir Ilk quickly riposted.

“Is that a fact? When we face the enemy, I will show you my prowess as a warrior,” Sir Ursh declared.

The sparring match of words continued, and Rorick allowed himself to be spectator to it, as it settled his mind. Tiberius’ words were just the words of a mind touched by madness, something to be pitied, but not considered valid. As for the nature of his thoughts, he considered that they were probably tainted by Arkhan. He would show that he and his men were no mere rabble, but proud knights and great warriors that would cleanse the beautiful land around them from the blight of Chaos.

***

“Why are we halted?” Syllame asked, with hand and claw on their hips.

“We are making camp and will continue after some rest and food,” Ikarem replied.

Syllame huffed in annoyance, as the daemon did not require rest or food as a human did. He had seen the creature dine on the flesh of things, most often humans, but he believed it was not for sustenance, at least not of the body. Not for the first time did he consider drawing his weapon and beheading Syllame. However, they would simply evaporate and return to their wretched corner of Chaos and perhaps seek vengeance upon him. His allowance of the daemon to join the Mirthful March was a foolish decision from the beginning. He saw his feelings reflected in the tentative glances and fearful movements of those with him as they gave both Syllame and their steed a wide berth within the camp. It would not surprise him to find one less among his collective when they returned to their sojourn.

He knew that Shyish did not know morning as other realms did. His mind drifted back to Ghyran, to a lush landscape and the warm days and cool nights. Before him now was a land of slate greys and pitch. The darkness of sleep was more inviting, at least then he might dream of color.

***

Morning met Rorick with bright beams that danced through the boughs of trees. He heard bird song in the distance, though he was not surprised to find much of the forest ahead to be devoid of sound. Chaos took beauty away in subtle and overt ways.

“Rise and make ready, we are heading out,” he declared, not allowing the thoughts of last night to impact his spirit.

Sir Ursh and Ilk had risen only moments after him and were soon ready to move. The armsmen broke down camp with alacrity and gathered their own weapons. Tiberius moved with less speed, though part of him wished that the wizard had simply remained asleep, allowing him and the others to march ahead. His wishes were dashed to pieces though as the wizened figure hobbled, staff in his grasp.

“We are to meet excess with madness,” muttered Tiberius.

He frowned at the words but did not linger on them. Rorick started the march, the steps of his allies was a drum beat that sent shudders through him. They moved as a unit toward the enemy, and nothing muttered from mad lips nor at the edge of his own thoughts would change that truth.

***

Ikarem had been incorrect about his supposition, as by his count he had lost two of those he had brought with him. He did not pose any question to Syllame, as it would be a futile thing. A glance at those who marched nearest to Syllame, and their steed told him all he needed to know. White knuckles gripped weapons tight, and eyes repeatedly looked to the daemon, seeing them as a snake poised to strike.

His nose wrinkled as the cloying, malignant scent of Shyish intensified. He was almost reminded of the worshipers of Nurgle by the putrescence that he smelled. It was a stench of rot, but there was something else to it, a tang that he associated with the living, like sweat mixed with aged blood and spoiled meat.

The scent came first and spoke to its potency as sound followed. Heavy and rhythmic steps, those of an approaching enemy.

He raised a fist and then quickly drew his sword as the archers behind him began to nock arrows, and others drew arms as he had. The homonculi were pushed toward the front, slavering and huffing with frustration.

“Finally, I was growing ever so bored,” Syllame purred.

Ikarem did not reply to their comment as the enemy neared. His eyes widened as the origin of the scents and sounds proved worse than he expected.

***

Rorick drew his weapon swiftly as the enemy came into view. A riot of colors and a horrendous perfume were the first of the enemy’s assault. He saw hues of pink and purple stand out the most, but there was also silver, gold, and other such finery mingled with the coverings of his foes. It seemed imprecise to call anything they wore armor, as he saw so much exposed flesh that he was reminded of dancers at some type of fair more than warriors. However, amongst the fleshy display, he saw a figure of largely humanoid shape, yet with animal components too that sat astride a beast with a pointed face and lashing tongue.

“Servants of Slaanesh, and worse still a daemon is among them,” Rorick scowled at the insidious thing that looked at him with an amused look spread across its features.

“I am Sir Rorick Fain, sworn to the Duchess Elarell. I offer you only one chance, lay down your arms, and turn away from these lands. You will be allowed to flee. What say you?”

The daemon let out a hissing, tittering noise that he surmised was its laughter. It was echoed by some, though it may have been forced to keep from drawing the daemon’s ire. Others among the group stood still, one of whom stood out; a figure of rippling muscle carrying both a sword and shield. He looked like either the leader or a champion, either way, Rorick suspected that if that warrior fell, the others would break.

“You gave them a chance,” Sir Ilk said with a conciliatory tone.

Rorick nodded and raised his sword high, then pointed it at the enemy.

“Charge!”

***

Ikarem heard the call for the enemy to move forward, and yet his mind still reeled from what he saw. He had anticipated the shambling masses of the walking dead, the translucent specters of nighthaunts, or the blood-drenched fangs of vampires, but not the host of horrors that advanced with ferocity toward him. They wielded weapons, though most were rusted, chipped, hardly fit for a smith to turn into nails or horseshoes, let alone serve as the arms of a fighting force. He watched as the homonculi charged first; the large brutes dug furrows into the grave dirt that served as the battleground and met the onrushing tide of monsters. One, wielding a tremendous axe of the same rusted metal as its allies, swung the weapon with two hands and cleaved a homonculus’ head from its shoulders in a single swing. Another moved with swiftness, evading the attacks of the lumbering hulks set upon it and used a pair of short swords to sever its attacker's hands at the wrist before piercing its throat.

A lone member of the horrendous horde rushed at him. It stood with a posture that was straighter than most of the others that hunched and scrabbled across the ground. In its hands was a two-handed sword which still held some of the sheen of metal, though its edges showed much use. Ikarem’s face twisted into fury and disgust at such vile beasts that came to meet them in battle. He called out for the archers to fire. Arrows rained down upon the enemy forces, as well as the homonculi, though he did not care what became of the latter. He watched as the enemies were pierced, dark blood running from their wounds. They staggered but did not fall. He sensed a change in the air and saw a hooded member of the horde waving a staff bedecked with bone shards, tufts of hair, and feathers. Energy of a sickly purple bled from the staff’s head and spread amongst the horrors, seeming to heal their wounds and empower them.

“Leave the spellweaver to me,” purred Syllame.

Ikarem nodded absently as he saw the tallest amongst them continue its charge, directly at him.

***

Rorick glanced as the daemon charged astride their hideous steed. He wanted to run his blade through it and send it screaming back to whatever pit it had dragged itself from, though it seemed its attention was elsewhere, and he had chosen his foe. The arrows that had been cast upon him and his allies dislodged themselves from between his armor as he charged. He knew that Tiberius’ magic had kept him and others from falling, even in madness the old man proved powerful. Should they both survive, he intended to thank him.

The champion stepped forward; their single-edged weapon shined brilliantly in the morning light. Their shield was polished to an almost mirror-like quality. For all the failings of Chaos worshipers, he did respect their maintenance of arms. Their weapons met with a ringing call as those around them met in a press of bodies. He could hear the righteous shouts of his own warriors meeting the howling cries of the Chaos forces. Rorick and his foe parried and deflected with equal skill. Each time his opponent tried to strike with their shield, he stepped back just enough for the attempt to fail. He saw his opponent’s face twist with rage at each such failure.

“I would know the name of my enemy,” Rorick said.

His enemy looked at him with surprise and confusion, no doubt expecting a battle of only blades, but Rorick was still an honorable knight.

“What say you? A nameless warrior pledged to Chaos then?” Rorick pressed.

“Ikarem Hesh, leader of The Mirthful March,” Ikarem replied, though it seemed to pain him to give such information.

Rorick smirked as their blades collided once more. The cry of metal striking metal sung outward from them as he suspected that Ikarem had not faced an opponent of his caliber before.

“I am Sir Rorick Fain, sworn to protect Duchess Elarell and these lands,” he shared in equal measure.

“You are filth,” Ikarem stated.

Rorick had heard worse from his foes. He let the insult wash over him as his sword knocked aside Ikarem’s and cut a shallow path across the man’s chest, drawing out a thin line of blood. It would only serve to further impugn Ikarem’s dignity, but despite being a knight, he was also a man who did not brook insults entirely without some reprisal.

***

Syllame spread their arms wide and drunk in the cries of pain and fury that spread through the fight. The smell of freshly spilled blood, even that of the maddened masses that Ikarem’s forces bled, was a scent of delight. However, the bleeding had been staunched by magic and while the battle continued in earnest, such an interference could not be tolerated. Blood had to flow, pain had to be felt, and fear allowed to take the place of anger and righteous fury. They could enjoy many things, but the sensation of righteousness always left a terrible taste within their mouth and a pain within their mind. It was not the first time they had found the mortal world to be disappointing, though they knew the source this time; a wizard.

“Leave the spellweaver to me,” Syllame had told Ikarem, though if he heard, it was unknown.

While the two forces collided, the wizard continued to manipulate the strands of magic that permeated the air. Syllame had knowledge of magic as well and as their steed drew them nearer to the wizard, they twisted the energy and reached out for the mind of the aged figure. However, as their magic touched the wizard’s mind, hoping to envelope it in an illusion of desire, it first needed to find such a thing. Instead, the magic was starved and harangued by a madness that found no desire whatsoever. They had never sensed a mind like that, it was akin to a shattered mirror held in a burlap bag, poorly reflecting anything.

“Then I suppose I will simply slay them and taste their blood,” Syllame declared.

***

Polished suits of armor shone bright in the brilliant sunlight. Bones strung together across torsos clacked noisily in the gloom. Brave men with handsome features cried out in righteous fury. Monsters with fangs howled out fetid breath. Each blink shifted Tiberius’ view from one to the next.

He had felt the invasive touch of the daemon’s magic, but his mind was not a thing to be exploited. It was a delipidated home with a few flickering candles casting light in far flung rooms, dancing shadows played out scenes of what was and confused the viewer to what truly is.

Tiberius struck aside the lashing tongue of the daemon’s steed that undulated like a serpent from the conical mouth of the thing with his staff. He brought up his hand for an unarmed strike, watched his claws rend the thing’s features, though the wounds quickly began to close. The daemon giggled and snapped out with its crustacean limb, slicing at his robe but missing his flesh as he stepped backward. The steed rushed at him, lowering its head and knocking him backward. Tiberius rolled several times, feeling his staff leave his hand at some point. When he stopped, he pulled himself upward. His hands touched the soft grass beneath him as he began to rise, and then he brushed the dried, dusty land from those same palms. The daemon looked down at him, a cheshire grin across its features. His staff lay equidistant between them, but the steed had a far wider gait than he did. Tiberius looked at the battle around him; proud warriors clad in armor faced barely clothed foes, then flesh hungry beasts tore into the exposed flesh of perfumed and arrogant fools. Dead on both sides lay strewn across the grass with crimson sprayed across the verdant grass and leaking into the dry, dusted ground.

“It is rare that I am one to offer mercy, but ending your existence can only be considered such an act,” the daemon spoke to him and bade its steed to charge.

Tiberius felt the power of death around him. It was in the air that flowed between his fingers, it was in the ground beneath his feet, and it was in each corpse on the field. He grabbed that power and twisted it into a macabre display. Bodies burst as ribcages split, skulls shattered, and tibias exploded into pointed shards from the dead. The fragmentary eruptions flew into the steed and daemon, the former took the worst of the assault as it was struck from beneath as well as from the sides. A javelin-like thrust of a fractured femur ended the beast’s stride as it evaporated into a mist of swirling purple and sent the daemon hurtling to the ground. Tiberius crossed the field of littered bones and grabbed his staff from the ground. He looked at the daemon who sat up, fury painted across their beautiful, yet bestial, features. He smirked.

“What do you have to be happy for you addled thing?” The daemon scoffed.

Tiberius gestured with his staff and the daemon turned. It saw three figures with rusted pikes descend on it. He saw warriors in well-kept leather and polished steel fall onto the monster with shining spears. The daemon let out one last shrill cry, and with it came a burst of perfumed air that caused him to blink as he saw only monstrosities for a time.

***

Ikarem heard the sound and knew it to be that of Syllame. A wave of perfume, almost putrid in its intensity, slammed into him and he saw his opponent blink in confusion. He did not let the moment pass without seizing it and thrust his sword toward the monster’s heart. The beast blocked, but too slow to entirely stop him. His sword bit into its chest and he grinned as he earned a hiss of pain, but then was struck across the face, his shield flung from his grasp by the force of the hit.

***

Rorick had been hit by a strange miasma. He did not see the proud warriors that marched with him, instead he saw beasts wrapped in tattered cloth, torn leathers, and bone. He saw fanged maws dripping with viscera. Then he felt horrible pain; Ikarem had stabbed him. His foe used his momentary confusion to gain an advantage. Rorick struck out with a simple backhand and stepped away. The miasma faded, and he saw Sir Ursh and Ilk in their glory, taking down enemies with swiftness and poise. He saw tireless warriors wielding spears to end the lives of the foolish worshipers of Chaos. The sword that he was stabbed with remained, however. He pulled it free from his chest and tossed it to Ikarem.

“We finish this as warriors should,” he declared.

Ikarem picked up the weapon, “You are a mad beast.”

“Enough talk,” Rorick replied and charged.

His sword met that of his opponent and while he was wounded, his opponent had lost the advantage given by his shield. The weapons met over and over, the metal not yielding. It was flesh that failed as Rorick met Ikarem’s next attack and pushed forward when the swords met, forcing back his opponent. Ikarem stumbled, and Rorick drew his weapon back and then thrust. He held Ikarem on his sword as his opponent relinquished his weapon to the grass at their feet.

“Despite your words, you have earned my respect,” he whispered.

Ikarem only looked at him with an expression of confusion and pity.



“You have, once again, protected this land, Sir Rorick,” said Duchess Elarell as she stood before her throne within her court.

“I am proud to have done my duty,” he said, kneeling before her.

“Rise, you have more than earned the right to stand, rather than kneel before me,” she replied.

He rose, lifting his head, and for a brief moment saw not the beauteous features of Duchess Elarell, but a bony creature draped in tattered cloth with dried blood at the corners of its mouth, a faded wig that looked as though it housed a nest of spiders atop its brow, and hands that ended in yellowed claws. He blinked and saw the gentle smile and brilliant eyes, the exquisite gown, and elegantly styled hair, but oddly still smelled old blood. He assumed it lingered on his weapons or boots from the fight.