It tickled.
The warm smear of blood across his face that is, sprayed there in uneven streaks with the blade being his brush and him the mad painted. At first, Blake tried to wipe it away with the back of his hand, but all he managed was to smear it further, turning streaks into blotches, blotches into a mask. So he stopped. He let it stay there, drying into his beard, dripping down his jaw.
He sure it was a nice spectacle.
Someone with a poet's soul might have given meaning to it, might have seen in those stains some metaphor for glory, fate, or the fragility of men.
Blake found no meaning in it.
He was no poet, Khaino the eldest, was, but he died. All his brothers died at Rock Bottom, and one was left crippled.
He put the anger into the next blow.Another spray across his chainmail.
