[H3][right][b]O L A   A L - F A R E S[/b][/right][/h3][hr]

The "crack" of a bowstring striking a bracer sounded brutally close to Olas ear and she flinched, sparing a quick glance for the haf-elf as the arrow leapt off her bow. In retrospect, Ola wished she had taken more time to train with something other than a hand-crossbow. It seemed a lot safer. 

Despite the size of the trolls, there wasn't much room in the immediate area, what with a Minotaur and a couple of hulking humans in the way. She drew her scimitar and stepped in on the left of the small band. The trolls were disgusting things, monstrous and vile on a level she had rarely seen anywhere in her travels. Necromancy. As if the trolls weren't bad enough on their own, someone had decided they wanted some undead ones roaming around. Torvelt really was the worst.

All these thoughts went through her brain in a matter of seconds. The mud slowed her down enough that she also had time to consider how much she missed the firm warm sands of the desert back home. Having said that, the desert tended to spawn oversize scorpions from out of nowhere, at least you could smell trolls coming. 

Taking a swift, albeit sloppy, lunge forward, she drove her scimitar at the left most trolls leg, aiming for a tendon. The creature was reaching in, away from her, making no effort to dodge the axe that was arcing down toward its second head. It was unlikely the creature would feel any pain but the more muscles they severed, the more it would slow the damn things down.

Ola was vaguely aware of the Dwarf pulling an athletic manoeuvre worthy of any elf and she knew, sometime later that day, if they survived, it would be ludicrously funny to recount. She'd only laid eyes on the group for the better part of a minute and already she had a story to tell.