Rubbing my palm over the silver blade of my sword, I watch affectionately how the metal digs and opens my skin in pain. The cut looking ugly and gruesome until it's healed back within seconds. I smile sadistically at my patched up palm before running it over the blade again, seeing precious royal blood leave my veins and drip to the ground.
The blood they so worship.
The blood that makes me, me.
How pathetic of us to praise a descendant liquid present in ones body. Liquid to deliver us positions and liquid to give us life. My red and green eyes study my features reflecting on the cleanly polished surface of the blade.
From the dark black hair that falls untamed over my forehead, the thick bands of straight eyebrows to my sunken unrealistically coloured eyes. How they fear a race mixed
