[center][h3][color=lightblue]Nicholas[/color][/h3]
[b][HP: 500 - SP: 6/6][/b]


[i]Unknown Location[/i][/center]
[hr]

It was like breaking the surface, the suffocating water on all sides making way for the crisp air that filled his nostrils. But the smell... the smell was that of war, of ash and smoke, of burning wood and searing flesh... or were those last tastes only in his memory?
As Nicholas' eyes fluttered open and he found himself lying on his back, wheezing like a horse after a ten-mile race, his body was shaking so violently that his armor sounded like a windchime. He looked around, searching for clues on what had happened. Weren't they in the carriage just now, having a pleasant conversation? Hadn't somebody just mentioned the God Eaters? Hadn't somebody just spoken of Death while somebody else defended his manliness? Or was that only another distant memory? And why was he shaking?

As he turned to his side, weighed down by his armor, he noticed - it wasn't his entire body that was shaking, only his left arm. 
[color=lightblue][i]Always at the most opportune time.[/i][/color]
The mercenary clenched his left into a tight fist, his leather glove scrunching as he willed the tremor to stop. It didn't, of course it didn't, but it focused him, made him aware of the fact that he was unharmed, that his shield lay next to him, that both his swords hung at his hip and, most importantly, that he wasn't alone. 

No, they were all around him. Most were still lying there, some with their eyes closed still, but they were all breathing. Only the men who had sat across from him, the one with the shaved head, was on his feet already, holding onto a bow for dear life. And there was somebody else, red figures appearing from the smoke. He didn't understand, couldn't comprehend what was going on, but he heard every word they said and as nonsensical as it all sounded to him, he understood the gist of it: They must have been responsible for what had happened, whatever it was.
That assumption was enough to rouse his anger, and his anger was enough to get him to his feet.

[color=lightblue]"Hey!"[/color], he yelled at the mysterious red thing as more smoke took form, this time some that he and his blade were more familiar with, [color=lightblue]"where the fuck is my horse?!"[/color]

No response. Perhaps she didn't hear him - doubtful that she didn't, the dead must have heard him - but she probably just didn't care. It was all the same in the end, wasn't it? He knelt down and picked up his shield, fastening its straps to his arm one after the other.

[color=lightblue]"Fair warning: I don't care if this is [i]Purgatory[/i]"[/color], he said loudly, his voice flush with wrath as he tightened each strap and stared at the 'bandits', [color=lightblue]"or if you guys are the [i]Guards of Styx[/i], or if you"[/color], he drew his bastard sword from its scabbard and pointed it at the smoke where the female had stood a moment ago with such ease and dexterity as if it was a wooden stick, [color=lightblue]"are the [i]Three-Headed Devil[/i] themself. If I'm stuck here for eternity and find out you messed with my mare, you're going to [i]wish[/i] for the good ol' days before I was here."[/color]

Banter in battle had always been one of his fortes. Nicholas knew that, to some of his companions, it would probably sound stupid, but even Jessabelle who had always derided his proclivity for speeches like this knew that there was weight behind them, that the way he prepared himself for the fight as he spoke and the fury in his eyes transformed them from something that was merely stupid, another joke from the man who hadn't taken himself too seriously in the carriage mere minutes ago, into something that put fear in the hearts of lesser men.
It was a pity, really, that their foes didn't seem to be men at all but faceless creatures who maybe had been men one day. Or maybe they [b]were[/b] men indeed but bound to the Red One's service and will.

Whatever they were, they faced somebody who wasn't deterred by the prospect of death. His companions were gathering themselves, rising to their feet, mentally or physically steeling themselves for what was unavoidable. With a glance over his shoulder, he looked who would be at his side. The giant of a man and the small woman stood to his right. The red-haired priestess was closest on his left, close enough to give her a wink, and, how else could it be, Jessabelle only a little farther, next to the bald guy. The others were either farther to the side or farther back, hidden by the smoke either way, but it didn't matter now - in a fight, you couldn't look too far; you had to focus on the warriors at your side, on the ones you had to protect and the ones who were protecting you.

With another clench of his fist, his left arm went still - and with it, his mind. All emotion was gone. Nicholas would spill blood and he wouldn't care whether the men he butchered were good or bad, evil or innocent, cried for vengeance or begged for mercy. He was still as water as he made his first steps from the group, his grip on his sword firm as rock, closing the distance between himself and the nearest bandit in three seconds. His enemy's friends didn't escape his attention and he knew he'd have to ward against them too, his shield at the ready as he powerfully slashed upwards with his sword, putting all his momentum in a strike that could, and should, carve a gushing wound into the 'man' before him.