Through the continuing flurry of blows, I unched an attack of my own, a Power Strike aimed at his center of mass. My closed fist flew like a rocket, smashing into flesh with a satisfying thunk.

  I needed to end this quickly. Though there was still lingering indecision in their posture, his friends looked like they soon would join in the fray.

  With a grunt of pain, he tried to create some distance between us. It was, however, too te, as my other hand was now grasping him with an iron grip. My fingers had sunk deep through to the rough skin beneath, denying the lionman his escape. I saw his expression change from surprise to worry, all in the blink of an eye.

  In response, Hashmal shed out with his foot, desperately striking me for a measly ten points of damage. I grimaced more out of surprise than anything else. Again he kicked out at me, his cws inflicting this time only eight points of damage.

  This would simply not do. With a measured strike, I delivered a blow to Hashmal's stomach. He doubled over, clutching his abdomen and colpsed to the ground, gasping for air.

  The pack, seeing their leader falter, surged toward me. Vaulting over the wheezing Hashmal, one lunged for my throat. My Mimic arm acted swiftly, shielding me, and the creature's jaws cmped down on it, unable to pierce my skin, due to my passenger’s protection.

  I was quickly learning how to fight with the Mimic and found it best to leave my defense to it. It was a simple matter of releasing conscious thought of the arm, the Mimic would do the rest. If I had any sense of fair py left in me I might have considered it cheating.

  Meanwhile, another pack member seized my leg, its teeth sinking into the flesh of my calf. But before it could rip away muscle and flesh, I dropped my stance and neutralized it with another Power Strike. My hand, swift as a bde, struck a precise hammer blow to the nape of its neck. With the threat neutralized, I thrust my foot forward, sending the stunned beast tumbling.

  When you fight someone, truly fight, there is a strange part of you that hesitates. It’s the part of you that hesitates to strike at the groin, the throat, the eyes, or other vulnerability. This is the part of us that feels sympathy. We do not do it not out of a sense of mispced honor, but because we feel the pain that we inflict. A truly selfish, and very human, thing. I felt none of that here.

  It is odd how we can lose focus at the strangest of times.

  Sudden movements at my periphery demanded my attention. The st of the pack I saw out of the corner of my eye. He looked worried as he cautiously circled us. His eyes darted and flickered about, looking for an opening. Although he snarled in my direction, a subsequent soft whine betrayed him. The wolf Beastkin gnawing at my arm sshed at me with his free cws, causing minor damage to my Health and, more irritatingly, to my clothing. I strained against him, trying to throw him off, but with his longer limbs, greater height, and weight, he had the leverage. His jaws cmped on tighter with desperation and I could see my Mimic’s Health being eroded.

  We struggled like this, in a poor and pathetic dispy, my Health being whittled down by the second as he scratched and cwed at me, refusing to let me go. Stumbling and trying to trip each other, we tried to throw one another down to the floor as we grappled. Desperate, I started instead to strike at him, but again, this close, I cked the distance to give my blows any real force or power. However, after a good amount of struggle, I was able to deliver a blow to his ribs, causing him to yelp in pain. His sudden cry caused him to release me, and I followed up with another punch to his nose, stunning him cold.

  Enough of this mindless brawl, and damned be the consequences of it, it was time to use my magic. The dark spells within me screamed in agreement, but these thoughts would soon be shattered like brittle gss.

  “Stop!” came a halting voice, weak with defeat but strong enough to cut through to me. “Stop, or she dies!” the st Beastkin threatened, drawing a cw near Zariyah’s neck. The damn beast had got around me while I had been busy with his mates. Zariyah, caught in his grasp, could only offer a silent plea through her wide, frightened eyes.

  I looked at the wolf-man, saw the fear in his dog-eyes and his tail drooping between his legs. His eyes met mine, and what he saw reflected in my gaze must have frightened him further, for he looked as if he wanted to break out into a run as I took a step towards him.

  As I was looking around for something to use to distract the wolf-man or to py for time, I saw tall bronze halberds above the heads of a panicking crowd. Rapidly, they pushed and parted the gaggle of people. With a scramble of metal and leather, they coalesced into a formation of armored men, just under a score strong. At their front, their leader, no doubt, was a man cd and armored in bronze and misty-blue steel. Elegant runic inscriptions adorned his armor and weapons, while a helm topped with a white plume sat upon his head.

  “Stop! Stop! Stop in the name of the City Guard!” the plumed soldier demanded, in a clear voice that was just a touch away from a shout or scream. He looked at me, then at the kneeling, and still spluttering, Hashmal, his fallen Beastkin friends, and finally at Zariyah being held hostage. His eyes sucked in all the details as they narrowed in focus.

  “By the tits of the great Goddess, what in the heavens is going on here!?” he barked, his gray eyes alighting upon me. His stern gaze demanded nothing less than a truthful and concise answer.

  It seemed that trouble had once again found me at the most difficult of times. I could almost hear the dice of fate rolling as I prepared a suitable response.