06-23-2017, 11:50 AM
"Those are some weird lookin' swords ya got there, Father," the man in charge spoke up. Bertrand, was his name? "I didn't plan on this turnin' into a fight, with just one old man out here alone. Was hoping we might just get ya for anything of value you got, take it all back to a Prime pal of ours to break it down into good old useful raw omnilium. But now we gotta make you an example. Can't let ya just get away free, after you went and called us out. Bad for business, ya see."
Anderson only responded with a low, faint chuckle before he sprung, lurching into action. A blur of gray and streaks of gleaming silver, and a scream of surprise and agony. One of the bandits off the side of the road fell, missing an arm from the elbow down. He'd been holding a short blade in each hand, but now only held the stump of his arm, desperately clutching at it and whimpering in pain as he stared, wide-eyed, at the wound. The others that had stood with the now-grounded man recoiled in surprise, staggering back several paces. Murmurs of "He's fast!" and "By the stars!" and "Stronger than he looks..."
From his position in the middle of the road, Bertrand let out another shrill whistle. "Shape up! He's fast and he's got some power behind those swords, but he's still just a man! Just one man! Now GET HIM already!"
The orders of their leader snapped the bunch of brigands out of their surprise and stupor. Weapons came up to bear, boots shifting and tromping over the road and the area to get in closer. Those with crossbows hopped up onto the high ground of the wagons they'd demolished, taking aim. A series of bolts were loosed, and with a flourish of movement, the paladin made a flying leap, his cassock billowing around him as he soared through the air, curling into a slow, lazy flip as the bolts fired at him peppered the ground around and past where he had been standing.
A gleam of silver, and one of the crossbowmen had a bayonet sticking out of his chest. A weak gurgle, looking down at the weapon piercing one of his lungs, and he toppled over, off of his perch. A harsh crunch met his landing, and he did not get up again. The exorcist touched down again, the remaining blade in his grasp hurled like a missile at another of the bandits. The man had time for his eyes to go wide in surprise and recognition and desperately roll to one side, trying to get out of the way. The offhanded, imprecise nature of the throw left even the clumsy movement enough to carry him to safety.
"Aw, look at that! Went and lost your weapons, Father!"
"Who even throws their swords? That's a damn fool thing to have done!"
"Go show 'im how to use a blade, mates!"
Anderson's only response was to rise back up to his full stature, with a grin on his face and a mad gleam in his eyes. "What man is he that desireth life, and loveth many days, that he may see good?" The query went unanswered, as many men rushed at him, weapons at the ready. A spear thrust came at him from behind, and a quick sidestep left it hitting only air, the spearman stumbling and earning an elbow to the face. A sharp, splintering crack-crunch and a muffled wail of agony and the man's feet carried on forward, leaving him to flop unceremoniously to the ground on his back, spear rolling away. A pair of hatchets came in, swinging one after the other. A dancing, spinning backpedal let the priest avoid the first strike, and his hand flashed out, grasping the second by the haft, just under the blade. Stretched taut over the back of his hand, the stylized, scribbled cross and the words Speak with dead stared the axeman in the face. A gleam of eerie blue light reflected off of the glasses of god's assassin, as his free hand lunged up, taking hold of the axeman by the throat, lifting him from the ground. And squeezing. The man struggled desperately, mouth working silently as his eyes bulged, staring at the deranged man of the cloth putting the deathgrip on him.
His distraction and focus on the first two attackers left him vulnerable to an oncoming blow from another. A swordsman rushed in, taking the opportunity and whipping his blade around and thrusting it at the priest's exposed flank. Seemingly without resistance, the blade sank in, spearing through flesh and muscle, nicking bones and producing a shower of blood. A second blow came in, as an axe swept up, crashing down to catch the priest full in the back with a crunch of bone and a fountain of blood. It was their bandit ally that ceased his struggling, limbs going slack and falling away, dangling limply as eyes rolled back into his head. A sharp crack and the man's head sagged to an unnatural angle. Another fusillade of bolts whistled through the air, and with a series of wet, meaty thunks, four of them embedded themselves in Anderson's back. He staggered, finally, under the onslaught of attacks, and blood dripped from the corners of his mouth.
"Ya put up a good fight, Father...hell of a lot more than I'd give ya credit for. But numbers is a hard advantage to overcome!" Bertrand chortled. "Alright, lads...put the old man out of his misery. We're done here."
"Keep thy tongue from evil, and thy lips from speaking guile." The words came from the crusader's lips, and all within earshot recoiled in surprise and horror. So injured, and yet speaking so clearly?! Both hands dropped from the corpse of the axeman, and with a flash, a silver blade erupted from the sleeve of each arm, one after the other. A twirl, one of them swinging around to a reverse grip, and he struck. One carved a brilliant, glittering arc and nearly took the head off of the swordsman. The other rocketed back, striking a deep stab wound into the one with the axe. Both of them went tumbling back, the nearly-decapitated man gurgling and panicking, both hands desperately clutching at his wounded throat. He faltered, and went down, blood pooling rapidly around him. He did not get up again. The impaled man stumbled back, clutching at the blade embedded in his gut with a wordless groan of pain.
Anderson flourished his arm, and in a flash another blade was in his hand. "Depart from evil, and do good!" he said, slowly turning around. Craning his head, he turned to survey the remaining crowd arrayed against him. Three dead, two incapacitated. One fifth of their number gone, but far too many more to go. "Seek peace, and pursue it!" he called, squaring off his stance again. Blood ran freely from his wounds, and dripped from the edge of his mouth, but his mad, delighted grin didn't falter. His strength didn't waver, and he seemed just as robust as ever, as he leaped back into the fray, both blades slashing in a glittering silver arc.
Anderson only responded with a low, faint chuckle before he sprung, lurching into action. A blur of gray and streaks of gleaming silver, and a scream of surprise and agony. One of the bandits off the side of the road fell, missing an arm from the elbow down. He'd been holding a short blade in each hand, but now only held the stump of his arm, desperately clutching at it and whimpering in pain as he stared, wide-eyed, at the wound. The others that had stood with the now-grounded man recoiled in surprise, staggering back several paces. Murmurs of "He's fast!" and "By the stars!" and "Stronger than he looks..."
From his position in the middle of the road, Bertrand let out another shrill whistle. "Shape up! He's fast and he's got some power behind those swords, but he's still just a man! Just one man! Now GET HIM already!"
The orders of their leader snapped the bunch of brigands out of their surprise and stupor. Weapons came up to bear, boots shifting and tromping over the road and the area to get in closer. Those with crossbows hopped up onto the high ground of the wagons they'd demolished, taking aim. A series of bolts were loosed, and with a flourish of movement, the paladin made a flying leap, his cassock billowing around him as he soared through the air, curling into a slow, lazy flip as the bolts fired at him peppered the ground around and past where he had been standing.
A gleam of silver, and one of the crossbowmen had a bayonet sticking out of his chest. A weak gurgle, looking down at the weapon piercing one of his lungs, and he toppled over, off of his perch. A harsh crunch met his landing, and he did not get up again. The exorcist touched down again, the remaining blade in his grasp hurled like a missile at another of the bandits. The man had time for his eyes to go wide in surprise and recognition and desperately roll to one side, trying to get out of the way. The offhanded, imprecise nature of the throw left even the clumsy movement enough to carry him to safety.
"Aw, look at that! Went and lost your weapons, Father!"
"Who even throws their swords? That's a damn fool thing to have done!"
"Go show 'im how to use a blade, mates!"
Anderson's only response was to rise back up to his full stature, with a grin on his face and a mad gleam in his eyes. "What man is he that desireth life, and loveth many days, that he may see good?" The query went unanswered, as many men rushed at him, weapons at the ready. A spear thrust came at him from behind, and a quick sidestep left it hitting only air, the spearman stumbling and earning an elbow to the face. A sharp, splintering crack-crunch and a muffled wail of agony and the man's feet carried on forward, leaving him to flop unceremoniously to the ground on his back, spear rolling away. A pair of hatchets came in, swinging one after the other. A dancing, spinning backpedal let the priest avoid the first strike, and his hand flashed out, grasping the second by the haft, just under the blade. Stretched taut over the back of his hand, the stylized, scribbled cross and the words Speak with dead stared the axeman in the face. A gleam of eerie blue light reflected off of the glasses of god's assassin, as his free hand lunged up, taking hold of the axeman by the throat, lifting him from the ground. And squeezing. The man struggled desperately, mouth working silently as his eyes bulged, staring at the deranged man of the cloth putting the deathgrip on him.
His distraction and focus on the first two attackers left him vulnerable to an oncoming blow from another. A swordsman rushed in, taking the opportunity and whipping his blade around and thrusting it at the priest's exposed flank. Seemingly without resistance, the blade sank in, spearing through flesh and muscle, nicking bones and producing a shower of blood. A second blow came in, as an axe swept up, crashing down to catch the priest full in the back with a crunch of bone and a fountain of blood. It was their bandit ally that ceased his struggling, limbs going slack and falling away, dangling limply as eyes rolled back into his head. A sharp crack and the man's head sagged to an unnatural angle. Another fusillade of bolts whistled through the air, and with a series of wet, meaty thunks, four of them embedded themselves in Anderson's back. He staggered, finally, under the onslaught of attacks, and blood dripped from the corners of his mouth.
"Ya put up a good fight, Father...hell of a lot more than I'd give ya credit for. But numbers is a hard advantage to overcome!" Bertrand chortled. "Alright, lads...put the old man out of his misery. We're done here."
"Keep thy tongue from evil, and thy lips from speaking guile." The words came from the crusader's lips, and all within earshot recoiled in surprise and horror. So injured, and yet speaking so clearly?! Both hands dropped from the corpse of the axeman, and with a flash, a silver blade erupted from the sleeve of each arm, one after the other. A twirl, one of them swinging around to a reverse grip, and he struck. One carved a brilliant, glittering arc and nearly took the head off of the swordsman. The other rocketed back, striking a deep stab wound into the one with the axe. Both of them went tumbling back, the nearly-decapitated man gurgling and panicking, both hands desperately clutching at his wounded throat. He faltered, and went down, blood pooling rapidly around him. He did not get up again. The impaled man stumbled back, clutching at the blade embedded in his gut with a wordless groan of pain.
Anderson flourished his arm, and in a flash another blade was in his hand. "Depart from evil, and do good!" he said, slowly turning around. Craning his head, he turned to survey the remaining crowd arrayed against him. Three dead, two incapacitated. One fifth of their number gone, but far too many more to go. "Seek peace, and pursue it!" he called, squaring off his stance again. Blood ran freely from his wounds, and dripped from the edge of his mouth, but his mad, delighted grin didn't falter. His strength didn't waver, and he seemed just as robust as ever, as he leaped back into the fray, both blades slashing in a glittering silver arc.
![[Image: kUpgBYg.gif]](https://i.imgur.com/kUpgBYg.gif)