Hugh drew his cleaver falchion, a very mean and crude looking style of sword, and slipped his round shield(built as a mix of wooden and metal parts that appeared to have taken a beating in its years). He gave a horrifying war cry as he charged forward, no doubt a habit from years gone by. He ran like a bear, nothing able to stand in his way. He was getting cut every which way by the foliage, but his pain tolerance had become very high over the years and this was comparatively nothing to the things he had experienced.

He came crashing into the open, dragging tangled sticks and assorted greenery, stuck in his hair, beard, and clothes. Coming to a halt, he gave another barbaric and unsettling war cry before targeting the leading highwayman. His eyes locked on, filled with the battle rage that had been bred into him from childhood. He was aging, but he still was a warrior. 

Hugh began running towards the highwayman, weapon ready. He brought the falchion up into the air as he came closer to the lead man. The falchion suddenly made a quick decline towards its prey.