[center][color=006400][h1]Yazju Fleetscale[/h1][/color]
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[img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/220929/5231f9f736370fb0dc0184fdf19b9a81.png[/img][/center]
A collab with [@SouffleGirl123]
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The two companions were surviving, and racking a formidable kill count, though every thrust of the sword was an unsurety. Every moment in combat was another moment they risked their lives. Yazju already had various wounds, though most were superficial and all would heal in time. He roared, something he did not often do. Yazju had always been a more docile soul, but the melee brought out the beast so many associated him with. 

Fujiko's eyes fluttered toward the place for a moment as she struck down another opponent. They were still quite a distance away, less on account of actual mileage and more so the piles of opponents throwing themselves at the duo. As her attention turned to another oncoming attacker she heard the warcry of her reptilian friend behind her. Although she showed no external response, internally she was shuttering. It was rare Yazju let out such a sound, only really in the heat of such an intense battle. She glanced over to him, he was as banged and bruised as she. She wondered how long they could keep up this pace, her own response wasn't so optimistic.

The Zauri cleaved a path through the throng, doing his best not to harm any of the city watch or the personal guard of the emperor. They fought well together, blocking and cutting in ordered ranks and pockets of resistance among the usurpers. Yazju thought he could just make out the Emperor a few paces over from his pointy hat and the lack of assailants in his face, though many seemed to be trying to make it to him. They had to stop that from happening, if for no other reason than to keep the integrity of this wonderful land Yazju now called home. 

Fujiko idled up next to her partner in battle. [color=limegreen]"What do you reckon our chances of getting up there are?"[/color] she asks, nodding in the direction of the palace. [color=limegreen]"I suppose we should carve our way through the steps, climbing doesn't seem all that wise with this many assailants,"[/color] After engaging in another short battle for life she looks back at the palace, attempting to map a somewhat safe route.

Her Zauri friend blocked a sword thrust on his shield and batted it away, clashing blades with an assassin. He stepped forward and brute forced his way into knocking his opponent over, slashing ferociously.

“We can do it! Just guard my back, friend Fujiko!” 

Fujiko nodded, following his directive, Yazju was truly a good battering ram. She raised Otto Boyuja and gave a yell that likely resembled a war cry. She made light work of protecting her friend's flank and sides, retrieving a few prize scars of her own along the way.

Yazju made good on his word, charging headlong through the throng. Some men barred their path, but most were too distracted by the maelstrom of blood and swords, and it proved to be far easier than if they were facing a true shield wall. Yazju added another cut to his snout for battle scars (though cuts rarely turned to scars for Zauri) but they made it through. Yazju burst out of the battle like a trout leaping from a stream, and there was an opening in his wake for his companion as he stomped up the stairway leading to the palace doors. 

Fujiko followed the path oh-so-kindly laid out by her friend. Eventually he led her through the fray, she was glad as she was unsure of how much longer she could go on hacking and slashing. She put a hand on Yazju's arm, as his shoulder was just a bit too high, as they made their way up the stairs. [color=limegreen]"Good job, Yazju,"[/color] she says softly before continuing her ascension up the grand stairs. As they reach the palace doors she dodges the flailed arm of a soldier haphazardly hitting at an enemy and slips in, ensuring the doors are open enough to fit Yazju.

The throne room! 

Even the Zauri was in awe. Wealth and splendor were seen in different terms in his homeland, but the opulence of the vast chamber was still very impressive. He felt inadequate, standing there dripping blood with his friend in tow, but before him, a scene unfolded.