Moving slightly to stand atop a fallen timber, Cical looked over the battlefield with quick precision. Mostly everyone he had spoken with was engaged with an enemy. Then his eyes landed on that abomination... She was [i]eating[/i] a man. His screams pierced the ambient sounds of battle and even the elephant. Something like that was absolutely inhuman. Even if cannibalism was justified - they at least waited until the man was well and dead!

	That was the last straw. Regardless of what she had to say, he wouldn't listen. What explanation she had, or background, reasoning. None of it mattered. Something that foul could not, and would not live. Yet he was not a stupid man. Obviously he seen the worth in having another warm - with a cold heart - body to fight alongside. When this was all over, when they had succeeded in their task however: His spear would pierce her heart with vengeance. This was a promise, and one not taken lightly either. Never before had he sworn to kill with such intensity, never before had his spears truly been anything besides tools to serve his own sense of morality. They were not used in anger, or sadness or revenge or even righteousness - a weapon like him had no use for such distracting emotions, they would only serve to dull his weapons... Yet would declaring vengeance on this foul abomination dull them now?

	His face contorted from neutrality to a vehement scowl. This inner conflict was stirring more in his mind than he would care to admit. In fact, it distracted him so greatly, that he completely forgot about the hoplite he kicked.
	
	When a mighty roar of anger and exertion broke his concentration, natural instincts let loose and contorted his body to the left, right arm flinging upwards and releasing his spear to allow the limb to fully be free. With a hollow clatter, it cascaded down the timber and into the rubble below. It took more strength to repress a howl of pain however, as the hoplite's spear slid along side his ribs on the right side, opposite to the still healing claw marks on his left. Fresh blood immediately began pouring from the wound down his side, coating the leather loincloth which preserved his decency.

	Cical's left hand was on his back immediately, grasping the white short spear and yanking it free in one quick move. With his back to the enemy, this fight would be nothing but awkward from the start. The spear tip was in-front of him now, momentum carrying the wooden staff right along his freshly made wound. His right arm clamped back down, holding the shaft in place against his own body tightly. The left hand rolled his spear over in his hand, now holding the weapon in a reverse grip as he blindly stabbed backwards. It was doubtful the attack would hit - and it didn't - but it provided enough time that the Kothar would be unable to finish the job with a more precise strike. Through the shaft caught on his side, Cical felt the hoplite change his grip and body positioning. He was more towards the right now, so that was the same direction Cical leapt off the section of wall.

	Where he had been standing a timber had fallen, taking with it a section of the wall to make a makeshift wooden ramp. To his right and left were jagged edges of rood and a small drop off into more rubble. Somewhere down there his long spear had fallen but that would be recovered after surviving this fight. When Cical jumped off to the right, he jumped off the ramp, taking the spear caught in his arm with him. Having more leverage on the tool than the wielder forced the hoplite to awkwardly move with the tail end of the spear in a desperate attempt of holding on.

	Through this lapse of grip on the situation, Cical released his catch on the enemies spear and turned his body around its tip. With a shield directly in his face now, the Baccumese was forced to retreat, pulling back to avoid metal-on-face contact. Now, with a healthy amount of distance and both men properly prepared, they could actually duel. However one was clearly outmatched, with a shorter spear and no shield. It still didn't stop said outmatched man from leaping forwards into battle once again. Unlike the others who Cical had gotten the jump on, this one was more difficult to slay. The range forced Cical's rapid re-engagement to screech into a halt, short spear deftly forcing the tip away from his body. While his movement forwards stopped, it didn't falter backwards. One step forwards and the lancer had to contort himself to avoid a head blow. Another pace, they became locked in a cross, sword-spear embedded in the wood of the hoplite as they fought to overthrow one another. Too close, the Kothar held his weapon arm stiff and jammed the other - holding a shield - forwards. It may have worked, had Cical not predicted this move from the time their head-level battle of blades began. Cical's own arm released tension and followed the carrying motion of the hoplites former attack towards the right. His sword spear created a solid bong off the edge of the shield which quickly followed into a rasping noise as it was drug backwards towards its wielder.

	In one snapping motion, the shield shot forwards and out of the hoplites hands. The construction of Cical's spear, the white one specifically, featured a broad-head like design for the blade. When it was pulled back this sharpened bottom edge caught the shield and roughly contorted it free. Now Cical could advance properly, as the staff of his enemies spear thwacked against his shoulder. A pang of repressed pain caused his left hand to become difficult to grasp. A toss moved the white spear into his right hand and subsequently, the hoplites neck. A gurgle and clang of weaponry was all he needed to declare himself the victor and release that breath he had been holding. All that had happened in seconds. With the fighting done - for now - pain reared its ugly head.

	His left wrist was most assuredly bruised from the wood shrapnel. Peppered with splinters no less. His right thigh bled quite profusely, as did his right midsection where the spear had grazed him. The foot he had used to kick a solid breastplate earlier stung harshly and the most recent injury, his shoulder, throbbed with tell tales of a steep bruise. He returned to cursing that blasted succubus for technically being the cause for half his injuries.

	Looking over the battlefield once more, the lancer verified he hadn't left out any loose ends or wouldn't be a fool to his own ignorance. Through gritted teeth and with a goal in sight he moved back along the side he entered into the battlefield. Haphazardly tromping through the rubble and into the stables where he could 'saddle up' as it were. The spearman hardly even noticed that his long spear was retrieved in his grasp. Slightly dusted and still coated in blood but in one piece at the least. Replacing the short white spear on his back the lancer had been half limping-half jogging the whole way. It would be easy to see the pain was enough to override his stubborn brain. Even the most resilient had their limits and after a fight and Cical was always seemed to be at those limits. Upon making it just past the house the elephant had gone through, Cical spotted the blur of a horse and hooded man spewing from the stables like he was possessed. So it hadn't been his Baccumese brother to be the coward, but the hooded bandit he had agreed with earlier. Bandits may very well be cowards, greedy and such but they still had a motive to their flight. They could tell when a battle was a loss and with the rampant screams of terror, bloodshed and pillaging, nobody would doubt their end should they remain. A brief glance around solidified that thought. So these were the scouts, that was the main force. A small curse ran coursed along his brain against himself. How could he be injured by a rookie? At least the remaining members of that 'squad' had survived. Maybe they weren't so useless and could actually be called "heroes" should they keep this up. Then again, who was he to be assigning who would take that role? He had just been injured [i]twice[/i] by the same man, by the same sneaky tactic. With a scowl, Cical entered the stables and located his own steed.

	A white and black stallion. From the forelegs on wards it looked as if someone had splashed shiny ebony pain across the animal. Splatter marks and spots ran further back towards the hind quarters, off setting the white rather keenly. Burgeoning muscle and fiery, wild eyes that matched the Baccumese man's at this moment drew the human to the horse like moth to a flame. They had to be a perfect riding pair. Bloodied hands fumbled with the knots of the tied, rowdy horse before getting everything undone. Every sound of clashing metal seemed to cause the horses muscles to twitch in excitement, nervousness or fear. To be fair, Cical was never good at speaking horse so it was hard to tell. Hoisting himself up and wincing at the pain the exertion caused his leg and midsection, the lancer settled onto the warm bare back of the horse. Obviously this one was specifically was being broken in. Saddle-less but used to weight, he had a bridle in his mouth and seemed to respond to the light movements he tested quite well. Perhaps they intended to use the poor stallion as breeding stock or a work horse, a sad life for one so keen to be guided.
	It took some time for the horse to understand Cical's weight, trying to lift off with his front feet a couple times before settling down with a loud whinny and responding better to his orders. It helped that the lancer gave him a few sharp kicks to keep him in line as well. Like that, Cical followed where the hooded bandit had fled off, hoping at some point he could catch up and either slay him for his cowardice, or offer him ale for a battle hard fought - and a possible task well accomplished.