>>6240845

The lizardman’s scimitar glistens under the light of Her dying sun.
This is a mistake.
First, because Her sun never truly dies.
Second, for the lizardman.
“Hnf!” You grunt, meeting his blade with yours.
He probably thinks little of your battle prowess — you are just a frail woman, instead of a large, bulky lizardman.
But you are not alone.
Ansàrra is with you, always.
The brazen weapon can do little to face your white-edged sword, cast in Maduan tetracerarmide. The craft of your armour, as well; the porcelain-like material bites into the metal with the ease of a lion crunching on hollow bones.
You shear off the top half of his blade, and then your strike eats through his scales, drawing an arc of dark red blood.
The lizardman shrieks, pulls back.
But he’s far too slow.
This doesn’t feel like a fight.
More like a slaughter.
But then again, it’s one these monsters’ fault.
Maybe after this, for the few that will remain, they will think again before kidnapping the Throneland’s village’s children.
Even if it’s just a bunch of Heathens, they don’t know any better.
Perhaps you will push a few of them out of the shade of their Emperor and into the light of Faith.
Just like you tried with Willow… your heart tightens with sorrow.
The lizardman reaches out for a throwing knife and you go back to the present moment.
You pivot on yourself, and using your momentum, cut his arm in twain. He screams, falling on his knees, looking at you with hate.
You plunge your sword between his eyes and watch the light in them go dark.
The thing falls on the stained grass, while the rest of the camp is alit in screams and flames. Rubida, just behind you, battles a couple of lizardmen as well — together, the Ubaiidi are her match in strength, but certainly not in skills. Her axes hews their shields and then their skulls. You share a nod with her as she stands over her victims.
It’s time to end this.
Besides, there is someone watching. And for once, it’s not just Ansàrra.

[cont.]