As is evidenced by the fact that despite waffling around for a good while before getting started, I managed to whip out a good 750 words (about a page and a half) in the hour I spent working.
Zahir sal-Maysa rose from his sleepless bed well before the dawn and dressed as warmly as he could against the pre-dawn chill. He belted on his sword and put his favorite hunting knife through its accustomed loop. A bit of leather tied back his long hair, and he stamped his feet into his best boots. He hoped they would hold up; he was not permitted to take a horse with him into his exile.
Zahir was Ven'hedi; he had learned to cling to a pony's mane before he'd learned how to walk. He had maintained his countenance of calm when the elders had announced their decision, as his honor demanded, but his private heart had wailed like a woman in mourning. Could they not have permitted him a clean death?
Alas, it does mean that I'm going to have to completely revamp the combat scene. Again. But I think once that's done, I can stop re-writing and just get on with it.