Real combat against a real opponent was the most-stringent of teachers. Under its tutege, I was slowly learning how to use my weaponry and equipment to their fullest. My kite shield was more than just a defensive tool; it could be used offensively to disrupt the flow of combat and to create other avenues of attack.
On the other side of the fight, the woman was fighting well, parrying or avoiding attacks, and letting her elegant armor absorb the blows when she had to. It was an education in fighting in heavy armor. Her fighting style was strange, to say the least, favoring downward circling strikes that hit with the strength of an ogre, crushing through guards and shields. Only the Knight-Sergeant Mistevan, it seemed, could repel those downward strikes to some degree. For all this, she was still hard-pressed. Either exhaustion or the sheer press of numbers would wear her down, eventually.
The caravan guards were slowly mopping up the remaining zealots, viciously finishing them off whenever they had a chance. The end was in sight, our victory all but certain. All that was left were the st gasps of this bloody drama.
Something about seeing a beautiful woman fighting off a group of armed men pulled at me. The part of me that dared called itself a man pushed me to rush to her assistance. Her noble struggle was a cry to direct and immediate action and, throwing caution to the wind, I charged in to aid her. This was simply the protective instinct, born from the time when men still rutted in caves like animals. Or simple vainglory. Nonetheless, it felt right. It felt just.
What happened next was a brutal flurry of heavy steel, punches, and kicks. The other guards, drawn by my charge, followed me and crashed into the confused enemy. In the heat of the melee, there was no time for the subtle manipution of magic or clever strategies, only the call of battle that thrummed through my limbs and commanded me to fight with rabid viciousness. I could only vaguely remember Mistevan’s st moments. For my mind painted them all in the impressionist hues of a crimson song as he was pulled down by our coordinated assault.
A flurry of notifications passed me, heavy with the weight of my actions.
You have sin a Human 7 experience gained.
You have sin a Human 7 experience gained.
You have sin a Human 3 experience gained.
You have sin a Human 3 experience gained.
You have sin a Human 7 experience gained.
You have sin a Human 7 experience gained.
You have sin a Human 3 experience gained.
Finally, as the storm of violence passed, there was only the red-headed woman left. She was surrounded by the wounded and the fallen. Taking off her helm, she looked upon me with a face filled with complete and utter adution and went down on bended knee before me.
I could only look back at her in horror, thankful that my reaction was hidden by my helm.
