The beast of a man snarled as he had come too far in this endeavor to let mere scale-worshiping underlings stand in his way or the way of his unlikely allies. It was after this thought found itself seized, this need to act, that his hand freed the greatsword from its scabbard; the brutal, serrated teeth of its more ornate upper half clicking and clinking hungrily against the metal. With the other hand free, he spread his palm wide and soon laid it upon the necklace that hung around his neck, which began to shift from side to side faster as his pace built from hustle to run. A metallic taste filling his mouth, the unnatural animal hunger within him beckoning and leading the charge.
A pale, moonlit corona soon followed with him, shrouding the man in defensive abjuration as his primal faith grew stronger into a physical force. All of it was born of the thrill of the hunt, the impending kill which compelled him, and spurred him to swing with terrible force. The halfling woman, realizing it or not, had inspired a portion of this wrath and helped add conviction to the sword's blow that fell upon the man barking orders. This culmination resulted in what was perhaps one of the most terrible swings of the weapon the outlander had ever given and surely it would rend flesh and armor alike upon the elven runeblade. Though as he pivoted, turning to carry through with the momentum, a trail of glinting, dull green spirit fire followed; a sanctified strike, magic through the body into the sword itself, one that made it no mere mundane attack any more.
Brannor hadn't the faintest of just how deadly a blow he had well struck through otherworldly power, instead, in sheath of moonlight armor and chainmail, he wheeled to face the next closest foe with cloak turning to follow. Not that he could think of it either in this moment of adrenaline and battle, but if the first man was not dead outright, the cultist would be so reeling that they might opt to get well out of the danger that was proximity to the Champion of Greenest. However, there was not a fiber of mercy in the man at this point. The burning argent fire of the Pale Lady told him to kill the enemies of the light and now? Now was his chance.
@Hekazu@Gordian Nought@Ryonara@Lucius Cypher@Norschtalen
A pale, moonlit corona soon followed with him, shrouding the man in defensive abjuration as his primal faith grew stronger into a physical force. All of it was born of the thrill of the hunt, the impending kill which compelled him, and spurred him to swing with terrible force. The halfling woman, realizing it or not, had inspired a portion of this wrath and helped add conviction to the sword's blow that fell upon the man barking orders. This culmination resulted in what was perhaps one of the most terrible swings of the weapon the outlander had ever given and surely it would rend flesh and armor alike upon the elven runeblade. Though as he pivoted, turning to carry through with the momentum, a trail of glinting, dull green spirit fire followed; a sanctified strike, magic through the body into the sword itself, one that made it no mere mundane attack any more.
Brannor hadn't the faintest of just how deadly a blow he had well struck through otherworldly power, instead, in sheath of moonlight armor and chainmail, he wheeled to face the next closest foe with cloak turning to follow. Not that he could think of it either in this moment of adrenaline and battle, but if the first man was not dead outright, the cultist would be so reeling that they might opt to get well out of the danger that was proximity to the Champion of Greenest. However, there was not a fiber of mercy in the man at this point. The burning argent fire of the Pale Lady told him to kill the enemies of the light and now? Now was his chance.
@Hekazu@Gordian Nought@Ryonara@Lucius Cypher@Norschtalen
