In the thick of the fighting, Angharad tramples the body of the first Goblin she has slain and strikes another to the ground with her strong shield. As it struggles to rise, she runs the tip of her Elven-forged blade through the gaps in it’s rusty armour. A young Knight called Betsan is less skilled: A jagged Goblin blade slips low in the confused melee, past her guard, driving deep into her bowels. Her simple leather corset, flexible and light, offers little protection against such a savage blow. Her rich, Elven blood gushes out to water Loren’s sacred soil.
Sprawled in the mud and scrubby grass, Dwysil grinds her teeth and bites back a scream of pain as a cruel Goblin, smirking and sneering, forces the point of its spear with both hands through the thick leather of her bodice and into the pristine, perfect Elven flesh beneath. The heels of her boots dig into soft mud, her gloved hands clutching at the rough haft of the spear, pushing feebly at the leering face of her killer. As the blade withdraws she can not help but cry out, broken and dying, defeated and helpless.
Laughing triumphantly, the foul creature swings its spear, still wet with Dwysil’s life-blood, to stab at Eilian as she steps over the fallen body of her first foe. Her blade moves swiftly to block the clumsy thrust, and the vile creature has the briefest of moments to appreciate it’s predicament before bright Elven steel thrusts home beneath it’s chin to end it’s sordid existence.
Left behind in the dirt, Dwysil clutches her pierced belly and coughs blood, doomed to a slow and lingering death by the ancient bargain of her people.
Beerman
2025-09-03 19:42:33 +0000 UTCPicardJean-Luc
2025-08-25 22:13:50 +0000 UTC