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[center][b]Kalar Splint, Chief Ranger of Galuntrung Keep.[/b][/center]

[center][b]Okly Outskirts[/b][/center]

That the Elf knight did not even dignify Kalar with a response scored a searing line across the Chief Ranger's pride, causing him to mutter profanities. "Fucking knights, you're all the same." 

The battle was turning suddenly, and not in the Ranger's favor - something Kalar was now painfully aware of. The bandits had rallied, despite the thunderous longbow volleys, and were launching a desperate counter-attack. They scrambled over each other, jeering and swearing, their boots clawing at the mud. Kalar was tempted to sound a fighting retreat, though he knew it was far too late to try such a thing. 

Still, two things happened that hardened Kalar's resolve. 

Adria, the Wolf Girl, had made her way through the chaos back to the rangers' firing line. With her lute, she sent a series of dazzling tunes that momentarily made Kalar forget everything, and then he saw the bandits' charge falter. They came to a halt, some looking puzzled, others clawing at their ears. The Rangers of Galuntrung made good the situation, and unleashed a final, close-range salvo into the huddled mass of their enemy. 

Men screamed as white feathered shafts broke bone, punctured lungs and tore flesh. The bandits, some looking close to breaking, shook themselves free of Adria's apparent sorcery. Kalar raised his brow at her, thoroughly impressed and somewhat surprised. She'd given the Rangers a few more kills, but alas, it wouldn't be enough.

The bandits continued their charge, and no amount of arrows or songs would stop them now.

"Swords, swords!" Kalar screamed above the rising carnage. "Give no quarter!"

"No quater!" his men echoed, drawing their blades. 

And that was when he noticed Liara, at the edge of their line. His chest warmed at the sight of her; with Liara at their side, the Rangers of Galuntrung would yet prevail. Kalar smiled despite himself, and turned to his rapidly approaching foe to display the same menacing grin he had given to all the bad folk he had ever killed over the course of his career. 

And then a horse whined, and there was a bright flash. Something hot struck Kalar's face, causing him to stagger, and he became intimately aware of a searing pain stretching up his right leg. Men close to him, his men, screamed in agony. He opened his eye and saw flame sprouting from the ground beneath him, from his boot and thigh. The vision in his right eye blurred, and then went black.

Kalar howled in pain, his years of stern faced discipline carelessly cast aside in exchange for primal rage. His two short swords flicked up in one fluid movement, and then he threw himself forwards into whatever happened upon him. His right elbow caught a man's jaw, his left hand plunged a sword into another's throat, his forehead crashed against a sternum. All the while, the flames raged across his flesh. 

The Rangers of Galuntrung looked on in part horror, part dismay, as their flame-laden leader raged through the enemy ranks. Bandits collapsed left and right, reeling from sword strokes, but eventually he slowed, and fell with a final scream. 

Kalar's best found their nerve, and with a scream of defiance, they cast their lot in with their leader. They crashed with their enemy, swearing damnation and vengeance until their throats were hoarse. They were skilled swordsmen, the best one would find in these parts of the Kingdom, yet for all their bravado and fame, they were just men in leather. Without Kalar to lead them, they'd last only minutes. These men were not legendary warriors.  

That role would have to fall to others present.