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Shaken and harrowed I cupped mine hands cross mine eyes to blot and shimmer a sun setting fastly. Seated on earth, elucidating upon thoughts muddied by wave and foam, my understandings entreat me to right myself on feet bare and bloodied.
A warm ooze leaches down one leg where I looked to spy a wound inflicted by a backsword’s curved blade. Soft yellow was its leather wrap, and it did have silver upon its handle, and I did see its etchings as it sliced into my flesh. Subtle ground Phlox was hitherto engraved along its blood gutters.
Dark red doth mine own blood seep in soft white sand crusting under its bevvied lot. To fearful was I to make haste and return to a vessel surely seized by the hand of Davy Jones and his locker.
Purveying a land cartographically similar to rival only Morden himself, a fine Sir of land devising. With a well deserved limp, for I did fight well, make way did I to open fields, fast as a man’s legs could carry.