The First Scar

A sample I wrote to try action scenes. Based around the early years of a character I love.

    With the morning sun flashing across the sea, Alek breathes deep the warm ocean air, and listens to the waves forever lapping onto the shore. Clear sky, steady wind, this was going to be a good day. He walks barefoot along the waterline, coarse sand still cool from the evening pushing itself up between his toes. He continues walking casually, a pack slung over his bare shoulder, wearing nothing but his light linen trousers and sword belt hung loosely around his waist. Truly more of a fashion statement than a practicality, the shortsword was highly polished, yet still simple iron, without even a scabbard or decorative pommel.

    The salty breeze runs it fingers through his long sandy hair. Brushing it back behind his ears, he catches a hint of movement flashing behind a small dune to his right. He tightens his lean frame for just a moment, then continues on, ears pricked for any noise outside the sighing of the wind or the persistent waves. Keeping his steel grey eyes fixed determinedly ahead, he refuses to give any sign that he suspects that someone is nearby.

    It all happens at once, there is a crash from the brush and a large man with ragged hair and a dull, pitted sword lifted intimidatingly above his head sprints out, shouting roughly.
    Startled yet prepared, Alek pivots, the wet sand churning beneath his toes, his hand rips out his shortsword and swipes across to deflect the wild flying blow. The large man barrels through, shoulder jarring into Alek's chest. The world flies by and the breath leaves his body as Alek slams down into the shallow waters. Head spinning he flails his sword across  to stop the mans backhand blow from digging into his face. The man continues to rain down powerful chops, grunting with every stroke. Alek, his own sword flashing frantically  back and forth above him, trying to quell the furious tirade. Brackish water slaps up into face, his nose; eyes wide and white with fear. Just as Alek forces himself onto his elbow, the man drops a heavy kick into his ribs. Fighting the impulse to curl, he snaps his body forward, thrusting his shortsword at the assailant; with a forceful slash the man tears away his last hope.
    Shortsword glinting in the the morning rays, flips, almost gracefully, and splashes off into the water. Alek looks into the face of death, a ragged man, with a patchy beard, wearing clothes that may have once had color. He is missing a number of teeth, and his sour smell overpowers even the salty sea. The man lifts his rusted sword above his head, rotten teeth showing in a grimace, blood shot eyes staring down. The sword descends.
    With a primal cry Alek launches himself at the man, arms grasping out in desperation; he almost feels the jagged iron tearing a trench into his forearm. Knowing only that if he stops he will drown, his thumb find the mans eye, and he grasps fiercely. Alek's kicks out between the mans legs and hooks back, his foot finding purchase behind the mans knee, continuing his momentum he wrenches his body across placing he weight entirely on the mans face and knee.
    Falling back into the water, Alek drops a heavy blow across the mans face, broken teeth cutting into his knuckles. The man begins to angle his sword for a short thrust into Alek's ribs, but Alek gets there first, flinging himself onto the mans sword arm, he writhes around, knee planted on the mans face, he grabs the mans wrist and the pommel of the sword and tears it free.
    He springs up, spinning on the balls of his feet, twirling the sword to his dominant hand, and throws his weight into a final thrust, rough iron piercing into the mans chest, snapping bones and opening lung. The man snarls, and gropes for the blade. Hardly able to keep his head above the waters, his hate melts into fear. Eyes wide, the man chokes out the last of his life, gurgling in the sea.

    Panting, Alek steps back out of the rapidly reddening waters. He lifts his hand to brush away the hair plastered to his face, only to find that he cant feel his fingers. He looks at the cut in his forearm, seeming impossibly large. Shaking, he reaches down to his pouch and tears a piece of cloth off the shirt stored in there. He walks unsteadily back to the waters, hardly looking away from his sundered arm. Kneeling in the waters he washes the wound.
    Remembering that this should hurt, it all suddenly rushes back to him, the warmth of the day, the sea bird cawing in the distance, the man dead in the water, and the pain arcing up his arm causing black spots in his vision. With a set grimace he dresses his arm, and retrieves his soon-to-be-rusted short sword and fallen pack.
    Slowly, he begins his walk again. It was only another twelve miles until Meransport anyways...