Zarif
The exhausted, demoralized Kassite defenders fell upon the spears, swords, and arrows of the Hellion sellswords, one after another. Expressions of stark fearlessness in defense of their home quickly turned to frenzied panic, as the walls surrounding the Citadel became a deadly inescapable trap.
All battles come to this... Full of honor and glory, until they aren't.
The once-merchant's eyes looked on somberly as they died, so full of fear, little more than boys.
His men now dropping like so many flies, only the commander stood firm, his heavy Bronze Plate shimmering resplendently under the crimson setting sun, masking the torrent of his life's blood poring from the wound Siris had planted deep in his side. The sea of his men, fighting, struggling, dying had surrounded him, getting smaller and smaller, until it now was just him alone, locked in battle against the fearsome spearman Siris.
Sensing an opening, Salador acted before his sentimental master had noticed, and charged through the gap in the archway to the Citadel. Zarif blinked, and knocked an arrow, as the camel leaped over a pile of dead men and broken spears. They ran out behind the General, arrow at the ready, flanking the poor fool.
The commander blinked back in confusion, trying to divide his attention between both Siris and the nomad. It was a proverb from the land of the Pharaohs. 1 part tin, for ten and one parts bronze. It refered to a fair trade, good business.
The foreigner didn't give the dying man a chance to answer, and loosed his arrow. His attention still on fending off Siris' strikes, it took him in the pack of the neck. With a sudden great shutter, he staggered, and fell to one knee. His voice was pained, and sounded wet with blood and bile,
With a crash of heavy bronze on the wet cobbles below, he fell dead, his heavy Axe splitting a small stone as it thudded beside him. Zarif watched, mournful, the deep red sun nearly blinding, as it reflected off his backplate.
All battles come to this... Full of honor and glory, until they aren't.
The once-merchant's eyes looked on somberly as they died, so full of fear, little more than boys.
His men now dropping like so many flies, only the commander stood firm, his heavy Bronze Plate shimmering resplendently under the crimson setting sun, masking the torrent of his life's blood poring from the wound Siris had planted deep in his side. The sea of his men, fighting, struggling, dying had surrounded him, getting smaller and smaller, until it now was just him alone, locked in battle against the fearsome spearman Siris.
Sensing an opening, Salador acted before his sentimental master had noticed, and charged through the gap in the archway to the Citadel. Zarif blinked, and knocked an arrow, as the camel leaped over a pile of dead men and broken spears. They ran out behind the General, arrow at the ready, flanking the poor fool.
Kashtilashu: "BAH! You sellswords lack the honor even for a dual between men? You'd fight for a diseased rat if it payed you!"
Zarif: Shin ithalkul balat-niel, Doth-shin shagóth-neï malag
The commander blinked back in confusion, trying to divide his attention between both Siris and the nomad. It was a proverb from the land of the Pharaohs. 1 part tin, for ten and one parts bronze. It refered to a fair trade, good business.
Zarif: Is their any honor, in a merchants scales?
The foreigner didn't give the dying man a chance to answer, and loosed his arrow. His attention still on fending off Siris' strikes, it took him in the pack of the neck. With a sudden great shutter, he staggered, and fell to one knee. His voice was pained, and sounded wet with blood and bile,
Kashtilashu: "Imperial dogs. . ! Your time will come. . .!"
With a crash of heavy bronze on the wet cobbles below, he fell dead, his heavy Axe splitting a small stone as it thudded beside him. Zarif watched, mournful, the deep red sun nearly blinding, as it reflected off his backplate.
Zarif moves to 24-9 and attacks Kashtilashu with his shortbow, hitting and dealing 4 damage, finishing him off, and earning 65xp, and Levels up!.
