It’s not exciting this time, though. My insides clench with sickly anticipation.
I subtly look around the group. It’s hard to see the faces of those directly next to me due to their height. But I get a good look at their chests. The leather shirts. Capes made from some sort of short-haired fur tied to their shoulders with black corded ribbon. Each person wears multiple strands of twisted fiber necklaces. Some are braided into delicate, intricate designs. Others have beads of carved bone, maybe shells, or rock? A few of the beads appear to be hand painted with symbols that look a lot like runes. I’m getting a very Viking feel from this group. And when a woman steps into my line of sight, the sides of her hair intricately braided into a mohawk of thick, shiny cords that cascade over her shoulder, I’ve no doubt they’ve crafted their costumes in tribute to the Viking age.
She wears a necklace of small bells that chime and tinkle as she sways formidably toward me. She’s tall like the others, with reptilian skin in gradients of light purple and pale pink. Her eyes are also white, but a soft glowing blue iris shimmers from the center. The edges of her scales glitter with a silver hue where her skin shows around her elaborate red fur tunic and wide legged pants. A pattern has been drawn or etched over the backs of her hands and wrists and along the sides of her graceful neck.
Looking between her and the white man, I realize these are the only two dressed in the regal red furs. The female is decorated so beautifully. The male’s bare chest screams power and masculinity. Their attire appears a bit formal and…
Holy crap. Did I interrupt an alien wedding?
A sharp growl rumbles from the female’s throat as if she’s reading my thoughts. This is crazy. I have the urge to back up, but also the strong compulsion to stand tall and face her. She’s holding a spear with a wicked black metallic tip. I have a plastic sword. Quickly patting my scabbard, I’m relieved to find the sword is still there.
Dumb. Like it’s really a weapon. It folds in half anytime it touches something.
A sudden wave of dizziness goes through my head, putting me off balance. I wobble on one leg and swirl my arms to regain my footing. Strange, I suddenly feel drunker than before. Maybe because I stood up and all the alcohol went rushing through my blood? Nearly falling, I grab for whatever I can reach. My fingers twine into fabric, no, fur. Looking where I’ve touched, I realize I’ve grabbed a handful of the white man’s pants.
Near his crotch.
Precariously near his crotch.
The woman huffs menacingly and grabs a sword in each hand from behind her back and swirls them impressively, each hand crossing over her body and slicing downward in the air. With a primal scream, she crosses them violently in front of my face, inches from my nose.
What the hell kind of cosplay is this? Something isn’t right. Breathing heavily, I put my hands up in surrender and take a step back. She steps forward, thrusting the swords into my face. Cold metal contacts my lower lip and busts it wide open. Blood spurts from the laceration. Stunned, I press a hand to the wound and stumble backwards.
“You’re over-LARP’ing, lady. You’re over-LARP’ing!”
She advances, swirling her swords and slashing them in the air with downward thrust as I hurry to back out of her range. The men part as I scramble back, doing nothing to stop this madness. My heart flips extra beats, my brain ringing with alarm bells. This isn’t part of the Con. Oh, God. The realization slams into me at the same time I trip and fall hard on my ass.
The rocks are cold and jagged beneath my palms. My brain registers a current on the air. It’s sweet and hot as it washes over my face in gentle whisps.
The breeze isn’t artificial. And these people are not dressed in costumes. The sword coming down between my eyes, glints with the sharpened edge of real, forged steel.
Oh, fuck!
Rolling onto my side, I draw my own sword from my sheath. I do so without thought, and pause, momentarily stunned when I realize the sword has weight in my hand. The jewels on the hilt blink in the sunlight, and the weapon feels meaty in my grip. This is not my plastic, made in China fake sword. This isreal.
Holy. Shit.
Scrambling to my feet with cat-like precision, I expertly block a hit from the female’s sword with my own. Her swords swirl in front of her, and her attack becomes aggressive. Slice, stab, hit. I block them all, moving on my feet as if they’re someone else’s feet. My hair bounces wildly around my shoulders, which is strange because my hair is long and thin, and I’d had it in a braid before. But there’s no braid swinging around my head.
The female rushes at me, slips to the ground on her left hip with her leg extended as she attempts to kick my feet from beneath me. Digging my sword into the ground, I use it to propel myself over her. Swinging in a one-eighty, I leap to my feet and pull the sword free at the same time, spinning in time to thwart another blow.
“How am I doing this?” The words rip out of me, rattling my ear drums.
This fight is like a perfectly choreographed dance that I have no recollection ever being a part of. I know the steps, the arm movements, the jumps, and ducks.
Catching a quick glimpse of the white man, I realize he’s being held in place by two other males. His chest heaves, his brow furrowed with urgency as if he was primed to intervene. Please, please intervene!
I crouch just as she swings the sword over my head. She tosses one sword away and reaches for something with her free hand, then extends it quickly at me. It looks like a rope. Whatever it is lashes up my leg and wraps around my knee. Excruciating pain rolls up and down my leg. She pulls, I fall backwards, once again landing on my ass. My head taps on the ground, stars assaulting my brain. Breath knocks from my lungs.
Gasping for air, I lock eyes with the female. Her strange eyes flicker aggressively as she aims the tip of her sword over my heart. The sword plunges.
And then everything goes dark.
Chapter Three
“Sludge.Donny.Riotactpurple heathen duck.”
Beep. Blurrrrp. Beeeeep.
