[color=f26522]Magnumus Agoston, Centurion.[/color]

Level 3 - (03/40) EXP  (will level up and count letters later)
Location: Ancestral Farmland, Land of Adventure, back to Lumbridge
Word Count: 287


[hr]

	Centurion had tossed aside his gladius, the blade sticking out of the ground. Holding the tattered collar of an undead minion he smashed it's face in with his gaunlented fist over and over again. Exerting great effort each time, the head came away into pieces and the re-corpsed being fell to the ground and began to turn into some sort of strange crystal. Standing back, he prepared to leap away as it disintigrated harmlessly in front of his eyes. Suddenly, the Centurion was thinking a lot clearer, and he realised he had been on the verge of some kind of mental break.

	[color=f26522]"Oh, shit. Right. Did...did somebody call me a fuckwit?" [/color] For a brief moment the Centurion lost his usual gallant, educated form of speaking as he stumbled over to his gladius and picked it out of the ground and clanked it on his greeves. Clearing his throat he undid the straps of his helm and removed it, attaching the steel thing to his belt. Some of the others were celebrating and Agoston raised his fist in the air but then put his hands on his knees and breathed in deep. Coming up he cracked his back by twisting one way, and then the other, and then smiled brightly as he stared up at the stars.

	[color=f26522]"Well, apologies. I suppose that means we won. I may have gone too far in a few places..."[/color] he cracked his sore knuckles and wiped off a piece of ickor. [color=f26522]"But...but, I think everything ultimately worked out for the best. Good work, everyone!"[/color] With that he shook his head, still trying to clear his thoughts, stepped inside his drill kart and followed the monster truck back to Lumbridge.