"Get up!" Scaramouche shouts, mocking you. He loomed over where you were sprawled over the ground. "Get up and fight for your precious city!"

Nothing.

He waits. After another minute of silence, Scaramouche creeps warily closer, his sword at the ready in case it's a ruse. You still haven't moved. Now that he's close enough to see, he realizes that you're pale as a ghost and barely breathing. Your clothes were stained red with your own blood, from a wound that he did not cause.