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But you killed me nonetheless, didn't you? Just like you killed them. I can smell their dead bodies, even though my senses are weakening and my body is giving in. My blood drips from the spear with every breath I take, and I'm freezing and burning at the same time.
I didn't know death felt like this.
My vision is faltering, but I can still see the dead foals lying in the grass, shafts sticking from their corpses like extra limbs. Just good sport, you called it, just good sport.
Those who kill children among your race are called murderers, aren't they?
My race calls them so.
But you don't think like that, do you? You think you have all the rights in the world, just because you have a white horse and white armor and an ancient sword and people call you a hero, a knight of good.
You saw my black coat and my fangs and my eyes of fire, and you called me a nightmare, a beast of evil. And you stuck a spear in me.
You wouldn't hesitate to track down and kill a murderer.
Neither would I.
And you rode away, without waiting for me to die, and mused about the songs the bards would sing about you. Great heroic ballads.
The ballad of the Childslayer.
But of course, you don't think that way.
I cannot see any longer, but I hear my herd in the distance, I hear the mothers cry out as they spot their dead foals in the grass. I had just brought them out for hunting - I was supposed to protect them.
My lungs are aching with each breath now and my limbs are shaking. I struggle to remain standing, trying to find the will to live, but the spear sticks too deep. If I fall over, it will go right through my heart.
The ground shakes as a good half of the herd picks up your scent and follows it. I can feel their fury as they leave. We are fast, much faster than a horse.
My knees finally give in and I topple over, falling into my own death. Wasn't this what you wanted?
After all, it's just good sport.
Drawing and crappy text (c) me
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