My next fight was against a fellow with a tongue forked like a serpent's. The moment I saw him step into the combat field, tongue darting in and out, I nearly laughed.
He was lanky, his head shaped like an oval ball, bald and shining under the sun as though freshly polished. A curtain of beards and a drooping moustache hung on his face, the kind I had only seen in illustrations of old British monarchs. It was so out of place here that I couldn't help the smirk tugging at my lips.
The man didn't prance about like my first opponent. He simply stood, stopping his tongue motions–probably because he could see that it didn't scare me–staring at me.
