Lord Polvark let free a long lasting sigh, and his heart sunk into the deepest depths of his stomach. He had gambled on the savages being open to reason, and romantic notions of honour; he had failed pitifully, in such a way that would justify his father's scorn. To fight and die, allowing his men to be slaughtered like lambs - even though each was a lion - or to submit and die, with likewise results for those he hoped to save. 

"To the Fire with it," he grunted at last. Looking up at his killer, Jacques managed a weak smile. "You remind me much of my father; you two would have gotten along famously."

With a shrug, his backplate clattered to the ground. 

"My name is Jacques Polvark, son of Frandalmir the Great," he said; his voice growing bolder. He unfastened the buckles on his wrist guards, and let them slip from him. "Late Lord of Castle Rivergate, former Civil Minister to the Emperor, and once beloved by many of the common man." 

He knelt low, and went about removing his shin guards. In a form of hysteria, he chuckled to himself, in an attempt to bludgeon the creeping sense of dread taking over his body. He didn't want to die, though he often wished for it, and now as the Ferryman was staring him down, he wanted more than anything to survive; to flee his sacred Imperial duty, to find his mother and apologise for what his sinful affliction had put her through. To find the tomb of his father, and offer his forgiveness to a man who only knew strength. 

"My name is Jacques Polvark. The Afflicted. The Man-Lover. Shame of Frandalmir the Great, disgraced of the Emperor's favoured," he continued with growing delusion, as he finished loosening his shin guards. "I have fought tirelessly to achieve in a world riddled with adversity, with death, dishonour and corruption."

Standing to full height, Jaques looked the giant in the eyes with an expression of the hardiest iron. "My name is Jacques Polvark, and were it not for people like you , like the Emperor or like my father, then people like me could forge a [i]better[/i] world." 

Flexing his lanky form, the Late Lord of Castle Rivergate clicked his neck from side to side. His dread had rescinded; there was a beautiful poetry in the words of his adversary. He would die a man, in a world that had sickened him from the moment he crawled from between his mother's legs. He bent low, and grabbed the axe in one hand. It was heavy - the years he should have spent in the drill yards, he had spent sneaking around his father's estate, embroiling himself in explosive love affairs with any who would have him. Though Jacques was a clever man. 

He had removed his torso armour, because it constricted his shoulders. 

"I am Jacques Polvark," he said, hefting the axe.

He had removed his wrist guards, because they would have slowed his swing. 

"I have lived a sad life, though no sadder than most," he continued.

He had removed his shin guards, because they would have stifled his speed. 

"For all the widows, for the children who grow up without parents; for the common man, who is restrained whilst his loved ones are butchered by those with weapons. For those who gave their last for a better world, and for those," he paused, and pointed the axe at the giant. "For those whose memories and souls you have devoured and defiled. For those and many more, I fight." 

Jacques, cold and indifferent to everything around him, charged forwards. He stopped abruptly, then jumped left, then right, zig zagging his way towards the giant in an almost clumsy fashion. As he brought the axe to bear, his enemy shoved a meaty arms-worth of death at him. Jacques ducked low, and rolled, coming up to shove the head of his axe into the giant's shin. Stepping back, the tip of the giant's knuckles grazed his nose, but Jacques resumed his offensive immediately after a brief stumble. He brought the axe high, catching the giant's forearm. A great fist caught him in his unprotected face; splintering his eye socket, and reducing his already injured nose to a bloody pulp. 

Blinded by stars, Jacques jumped backwards and snarled at his enemy through bloodied vision. His lungs heaved with effort, and the pain in his face was almost overpowering, but somehow, the Late Lord of Castlegate was not cowed. 

"Come at me, monster, come at me and let's end this," he spat, "I've enough left to reap your evil from this world."