Evening the Odds [South of Jahara] Aug 21, 2011 21:08:53 GMT -5
Post by Bharune on Aug 21, 2011 21:08:53 GMT -5
“Now that just ain’t—“ the brunette fighter lunged between a broad-shouldered mercenary and a fallen garif, jerking up the wide blade of his black falchion to collide with the hunter’s military-grade shortsword. “—right!”
Rook slammed his knee into the mercenary’s gut, shoving him back with a forceful push against the locked weapons. Ophelia gleamed in the reddish glow of the twilight sky as she bit flesh and steel and swiped through the shimmering flutter of dust, kicked up by the violent skirmish. Two garif ambushed by this raiding part of at least seven well-armed combatants! Hardly fair at all.
Somewhere in his gut, Rook had known this would happen. These…skulled men, these monstrous humanoids, were still too different for the neighboring cities and lacked the proper weaponry to defend against any kind of clever assault. These garif were a quick ticket for seizing new territory, and remained oblivious to it.
But Rook had pursued a particularly dangerous fiend far from Deling one hot day several months ago, and when a few buddies of said fiend joined in the fray it had been a wandering garif that had lent him a hand. The beast had said nothing, accepted neither thanks nor reward, yet wasn’t entirely cold to Rook’s gratitude. They were benevolent creatures, that much Rook could tell. This persecution was entirely unwarranted and entirely for selfish gain, and Rook couldn’t turn a blind eye to it.
“Why don’t you just crawl back into the gutter you slithered out of?” Rook demanded, getting in close enough to slam the hilt of his sword into the staggered mercenary’s skull. The man crumbled instantly, alive but incapacitated, and Rook turned on one of the others. He couldn’t tell their country of origin, but they didn’t seem to be equipped with any firearms, luckily for Rook. Ophelia was a queen beastslayer, but she didn’t fare so well when it came to guns and explosives.
A rightside glance revealed that one of the garif wasn’t likely to rise again – his stomach was split, emptying blood and entrails to mix with the sand. The other horned creature struggled to fend off four of the mercenaries in a wounded state, and Rook knew if they didn’t turn this around quickly it wouldn’t end well. His current adversary’s spear was too quick to be matched by the heavier falchion, though, and Rook spent every movement parrying attacks without any hope of landing a blow. Suddenly, pain and moisture erupted in a diagonal slash against his back, and Rook buckled for half a second before regaining enough balance to pivot and dodge both the spear and a second swing from another shortsword, reddened with his blood.
“You fuckers are really starting to piss me off,” Rook spat, his back now towards an large, upward stretch of rock and earth so he could face his two opponents. “This is your last chance to turn tail before I go all commando on your asses, Galbadian-style.”
The two glanced at each other, then laughed from behind their protective sand visors. Well, Rook could hope, couldn’t he?
”Alright, then, just remember I gave you a chance to leave with your balls still attached!”
The brunette swung forward towards the swordsman, praying he could strike quickly enough to also parry the spear that would undoubtedly lash out next.