[center][h1][color=silver]Lucas[/color][/h1][/center]
[hr][hr]
As he marches down the fourth and final street, armour battered but functional, poleaxe gripped tightly, and a recently replaced helmet hiding the grim look on his face, Lucas looks briefly over the men beside him, not many familiar faces left, the last few weeks of fighting retreats had bled them hard, but he shares a few nods, probably for the last time. There's a grim mood among them, not even Sir Justinian could inspire much morale today, they all know there will be no retreat, not even a regrouping with the cliffs at their backs, no, today they sell their lives as dearly as they can and hope the ships below escape before the demons spot them.

It doesn't take long for the demons to meet their line, the screams of the dieing and the clash of weapons drowning out any attempts at speech, while the metallic smell of fresh blood joins the acrid smoke. Lucas doesn't hesitate to wake his aura, the familiar silvery-grey mist coating his limbs, what need has he to conserve his strength when the demons will surely kill him before exhaustion can. 
Each step forwards is paid in blood, a swift swing from right to left relieves a wulver of its tooth filled head, then the haft blocks an orc's sword with a jarring impact that may well have disarmed him five years ago, but now he simply pivots and thrusts the butt-spike through the demon's heart, finally he lets a second orc's sword glance off his armour before crushing its skull, all that buys him just enough space to take a step forwards. 
Progress is slow and bloody, when someone falls, another soldier steps right over their corpse to fill the gap, and the tide of demosn seems unending, but those men who survive press on, stepping into any gap the demons leave, inching the frontline ever closer to the central plaza. 
After the first hour of slow progress Lucas reconsiders his thoughts on exhaustion, particulary as painful memories of Felicia's death surface, the distraction costs him a painful axe blow to the left arm, his armour does its job, but the bruise makes his movement that much stiffer, at least the visor on his helmet hides the expression on his face. 
He reigns the aura in, saving it for when something worse than a boogbear reaches them, no doubt the demons are holding the nastiest monsters back for when they weaken, as they had so many times before. Steel, strength and skill are enough for now, a swing kills a demon, a thrust with the spike into a haft-parry covers him as he steps into the gap. With each repetion the plaza gets that much closer.