Chime

[Roger Smith]

Several hours had passed since his departure from the clustering place of his arrival. Though he had been entirely loath to let the vampire escape alive, the point of the situation had been drilled home all too clearly. He was forced to admit it, as poor a taste as it left in his mouth to do so. There was every chance this was beyond his reckoning, some force at work here beyond his understanding. Some rule at play that would call to an authority that would supercede that which her served. How such a thing could be, how any force could ever claim with certainty and truth that they held a greater ruling than the Almighty, was beyond him.

...then, how he could be here at all, seemingly alive and well, after he had all too clearly died for good in his struggle against the monster who had rejected God was also beyond him.

It was not a crisis of understanding that would break him. No, his convictions were far too strong for that. He would leave the actions of dispensing holy vengeance and justice aside, for now. He would turn his mind instead to understanding. Sink deep into the rivers of thought, and drown in his efforts to come to the truth, or successfully navigate the turbulent rapids and reach a conclusion. Take the truth of the matter in hand, and discover the reasoning for his presence here. There could be no doubt, in some fashion, that this was His will; the LORD had a purpose for him here.

It only waited for him to stumble across it.

And stumble, he did, though not across purpose. Over empty air, shimmering with color and distortion, shifting and wavering scenery and air. White gave way to a swirling cacophony of rainbow hues. Sparks and swirls of meaningless color assaulted his vision. A sudden shifting in the feel of the air and sound of the world assailed his skin and hearing. He pitched forward, staggering like a drunkard. His grace was broken, his balance thrown off.

The swirl of offending sensation broke in only a moment.

The chaotic mess of colors gave way to a gentle green, grasses rolling and swaying. The air overhead settled into a pattern, a gentle breeze ruffling his sunny blonde hair, still matted with dust and ash from his arrival. The non-scent of the white void was replaced with an overwhelming, in comparison, smell of earth and stone, grass and trees, and the distant, pungent tinge of smoke on the wind.

[Roger Smith]

A long practiced motion lightly adjusted his glasses, set askew from his rough stumble into the grass. A deep breath, taking in the sudden profusion of scent and the smell of life, so absent in the stark, eye-searing void he had awoken in. A deep exhalation, his eyes turning aside to take in the rest of his immediate surroundings with more focus.

A small field, covered in grasses and growth of plants. Bushes and shrubbery, more sparse growth of larger grasses and weeds here and there. Only the occasional tree or small copse of them, standing few and far between, forming a roughly dotted line that trailed lazily toward distant forests. The gate he had just come through sat at the crest of a small, gently sloping hill, at the center of a ring of huge, standing stone pillars. Ancient and weathered, worn by wind and years, but still strong and sturdy. Even at just a glance, it was evident that there had been quite the scene of chaos here, sometime recently. The ground was torn and blasted apart, scorched grooves burned in the earth. Upturned and left to lie there, as if some great flaming spade had ripped furrows out of it for the amusement of some deranged farmer. The stones, as well, were scorched black in places. Rough, jagged lines played across the surface, spidery cracks spreading from the blackened, burned areas and chips and shards of stone littering the ground. Huge splits, deep cracks and fissures, marred the surface of one stone in particular. It looked as if lightning had struck, if he had to hazard a guess from just his cursory glance.

Of course, he didn't really need to concern himself with that. It was a curiosity, of course, but nothing more. He turned away from the blasted stones and landscape, to look out over the world spreading before him more widely. In the distance there were forests, spreading and sprawling across huge stretches of land. Clear roads here and there cut through them and around them, connecting to various small villages and towns, nothing more than vague blurs at this distance, recognizable only by the smoke curling up from them. Further in the distance, mountains loomed on the horizon, the plains and fields running to meet them and the persistent greenery stopping shortly up their steep sides. The mountains dwindled as they went, occasionally leaping out into the fields and plains with a few stray peaks, much smaller than their range-bound brethren, but standing tall over the grassy expanses around them all the same.

It was on one such outlying mountain, standing tall among even its brethren outside of the range proper, that there rose the unmistakable form of a city. Even hazy and indistinct as it was from this distance, the sign of terraces and layers of pristine white stonework standing one atop the other, smaller and smaller as they rose, was clear enough. With any luck, it was some sort of major city, perhaps even the capital city, if he was lucky. By his rough estimation it would take the work of no small amount of travel to reach it, on foot. The other various towns and villages dotting the fields were much closer, and would make a good intermediate destination. Perhaps there he could see about finding some information, possibly resources to help him on his trip to that distant locale. He was going to be in need of much of both, in the coming days.

With a resolute sigh, the Purifier adjusted his gloves, pulling them taut and secure over his hands, before folding his arms loosely behind his back and leaning forward, into his stride, as he set off down the gentle slop, toward the distant sign of a road. There was no sense in traipsing through wild country, if a road was accessible. And with any luck, there would be others along it, traveling as perhaps he was. Begging a lift to speed his journey was possible, but if it proved inviable, he would settle for directions or begging the answer to a few questions. He could not do with being so lost as he was for very much longer.

[Roger Smith]

His hopes went unanswered.

He had indeed found company on the road, but it was not the simple civilian folk he had been hoping to see. Not a merchant, or perhaps the local law of this land. No, nothing of the sort. But there was company waiting on the road.

He had been traveling at his slow, even pace for what felt like hours now. The judas priest had all but given up on encountering anyone this day, resigning himself to perhaps wandering on through the night, following the road and seeing where it lead him. But here, just as the sun was starting to begin its descent beyond the horizon, as it turned from pale yellow to gold and orange, he'd come across company.

They were lounging around, among piles of wreckage on either side of the road. Large, heavy carts pulled into the middle of the road, blocking it off from any carts or the like traveling along. At least a dozen folk stood or sat around and among the rudimentary blockade. On foot, it would not be difficult to circumvent it and merely go around, provided one had not been seen yet. But even from this distance, Anderson could tell. Eyes had already been laid on him, and the group of blockade-runners had gone from their easy lounging to a watching, waiting, ready position.

It drew a deep, heavy sigh from him. This was going to be another delay. Behind his glasses, eyes lazily, tiredly, flicked up to take in the position of the sun. "I'll not be makin' it much further before dark, if I have ta stop tae take care o' that lot..." he said. He hunched his shoulders as if against a chill breeze as he continued forward, not even breaking his stride. "Maybe they'll be of a mind tae let an old man pass without issue..."

[Roger Smith]

They were, as it turned out, not of a mind to do any such thing. As Anderson drew nearer, he could see them shifting and shuffling about, some of them hopping down from their perch to step into the road, forward from their blockade. This close, he could see now they were all of them armed. Leather, animal hides and chainmail. Some with swords, some with axes, one with a spear. Two of them, still sitting on the wreckage off to either side, sporting a crossbow. Thirteen of them, all total, with one of them standing before the rest, clearly the leader of the bunch. Nearly a foot taller than the rest, sporting a pair of blades resting sheathed over his back. A large bull's skull stood in for a pauldron over his left shoulder, while the right arm, in an ornate metal gauntlet, rested on the hilt of an absolutely gargantuan axe. A real fighter, from the looks of him.

"Well, well, well, evenin' to ya, Father!" skull-pauldron calls out when the meandering priest is still half a hundred yards out. "Quite a time to be travelin' out here. Where might ya be headed?"

"It's always quite a time tae be travelin', when you have th' sort o' duties of one in my line o' work," comes the response. Much quieter, not shouted as boisterously, but it carries cleanly on the breeze. "I'm headed tae nowhere specific. Wandering without aim or certain destination, as ah've nowhere tae go that I know the location of."

"Ah, so you're a new arrival, then, are ya, Father?" the lead man asks, earning a chorus of snickers and jeers from his cohorts. "That's a right shame it is. Someone might see fit to take advantage of your newness and lack of direction, in these most uncertain times."

"Aye, is tha' so?" Anderson had not broken strike, continuing slowly forward. He was, by now, only half as far out as when he'd first been spoken to. "An' what sort o' person are you, then? Tae se' up shop ou' here, in tha middle o' the road, like this, with such an armed group. A group of concerned citizens set tae warn folk away from trouble on the road ahead, p'rhaps?" He lowered his gaze slightly, his glasses catching the light of the setting sun and turning the lenses to gold. Behind the shrouded lenses, his eyes roved this way and that, observing the surroundings. Plenty of hills and rises to either side of the road. A copse of trees. Ditches and streaks of scraggly brush and shrubbery. "...or maybe somethin' far less reputable?"

"Now, now, Father, there's no need for that sort of suspicion!" The skull-shouldered man lifted his left hand in a placating gesture, waving it slowly. "We're just as you said, just a humble bunch of concerned citizens! Part of the local militia, from a nearby town, come out to warn folk on the road of dangerous troubles around and about these parts." He turned to gesture around at the general scene and countryside. "It's been dangerous times lately, wouldn't ya know!"

"Oh, aye? Well, forgive me for mah wariness. Ah've just seen nothin' save fer strangeness and unsavory types since arrivin'." Anderson's pace remained unslowed, and he had once again halved the distance between the two groups. He turned to look off one side of the path, sweeping around to gaze off the opposite side. He could see telltale signs of movement, in the brush. Someone, or something, lurking there. Taking great pains to stay hidden, even if the efforts were clumsy. "So, what's this ye said about dangerous troubles around these parts? Places I should be avoidin', I'm to take it?"

"Oh, for sure, for surely, Father. All sorts of places and things you should avoid. We'd be glad to give you all the information you could need and then some," the leader of the bunch went on, eliciting another round of snickers from the others lounging about. "Mayhap we could even go so far as to provide ya with an escort! And all for quite a nominal fee, as it were."

"Ah, is that tha way of it, then?" Anderson had finally stopped, half a dozen paces out from the bunch. From here he could see it clearly. The gutted, overturned forms of wagons and carriages forming the bulk of the wreckage off the sides of the road. Smashed and trashed, torn apart by bare hands and blades in equal measure, brute force reducing the structure to ruin. The splintered wood was stained with ugly, dark splotches here and there. The work of common brigands and highwaymen, without a doubt. He craned his neck, rolling it around and eliciting a few sharp cracks and pops. His shoulders dropped from their hunched posture as his gaze came to fall squarely, heavily, on the leader of the impromptu roadblock. "Ya shouldnae tell such lies, my son."

[Roger Smith]

The man recoiled, at the words, as if struck across the face. "Wh-Wha-What?! I-I don't know what you're referring to, Father!" He tried to regain his composure, taking a step back and shaking his head. "I think you're just a bit paranoid, maybe...being newly arrived and all as you said. But it's nothing to fret over. I'm sure we can rectify this misunderstanding and come to an agreement!"

Anderson's arms slowly unfolded from behind his back, falling to rest at his sides. "Lo, mine eye hath seen all this, mine ear hath heard and understood it," he said quietly, softly. And yet for all the gentleness to it, the words were hard, cold, and unyielding. The gentle glow in his glasses shimmered, flickering from gold to orange. "What ye know, the same do I know also: I am not inferior unto you."

Now the leader of the group blocking the road stepped back again, eyes going wide. "What are you on about, now, you daft man? When did we ever say we were—"

"When ya spoke up just now, boss! Said he was just newly arrived, all confused and uninformed about the state o' things! Think you made 'im mad, you did," one of the cohorts spoke up. The one with the spear.

"Oh, for the love of..." The leader ran a hand over his face. "L-Listen here, Father, it was all just..."

"Surely I would speak to the Almighty, and I desire to reason with God!" Anderson's voice rose, taking on a steel-hard cast to it. And all those within earshot flinched, recoiling away from the chill that swept through them at the sound of the words. The sound of preaching, long-memorized words, recited with passion and belief behind them. "But ye are forgers of lies! Ye are all physicians of no value!" A flourish, hands curling outward into rough, clawed grip with a series of crackling pops, and Anderson flexed just slightly at the knees, like an animal, ready to pounce."O that ye would altogether hold your peace! and it should be your wisdom." A flash of silver, and in his hands were blades. With expert precision he twirled them, taking a grip upon one forward, the point of it down toward the earth below. The other spun about in a dizzying streak of silvery light, coming to rest clutched in a reverse grip, pointing back along his arm.

The assembled brigands and robbers recoiled again, backing up against their barricade. All of them had taken up weapons now, gripping them tightly. The two with crossbows had hefted them, leveling them and keeping them trained on the lone man in the middle of the road. "He's lost it, he has..." one of them muttered, voice low and quivering.

"I don't think he ever had it!" one of the swordsmen spoke up. "Damn fool's spouting nonsense, now! Callin' us a bunch of liars and then rambling on and on about whatever!"

"And then he went and drew weapons outta nowhere and all! What's his deal? He really think he can fight his way outta this? Out of all of us, here?"

The leader merely hefted his axe, swinging it up and over with one arm, until it rested against his shoulder. "Well, lads...let's not disappoint the good Father. Seems like he means to start some violence here. So we'd best make an example of him! After all, it's dangerous 'round these parts. Wouldn't be proper at all if no one ever died or came to harm! Would make us terrible liars and all." This was met with a round of jeering and laughing, and the rattling of weapons.

"Right, then!" Free hand came up to mouth, index finger and thumb tucking between lips and a sharp, shrill whistle coming forth. "COME ON OUT, LADS! We've got us some company to entertain! Let's us show the Father here how Bertrand's Brigade entertain people who try to give us a bad name, eh?!" Another chorus of jeering laughter met the call to arms, and a half dozen more brigands came traipsing and tromping into view from behind and around the blockade, forming out into a wide semicircle before Anderson. Another half dozen came slithering and clambering out of the bushes, shrubs and ditches off the road, leaving him virtually surrounded in every way, except perhaps to retreat back down the way he'd come.

For his part, Anderson remained still, watching silently. His gaze shifted only slightly, to either side. Observing and counting the number that had come out of the woodwork and arrayed themselves against him. Twenty-five of them... A fair number. He was drastically outnumbered, and even with the powers given to him by the Lord, he was still weakened. This was not going to be a fight he could afford to take lightly. It was one he would have to take with the utmost seriousness. It was his mission. His personal mission, of divine justice. He had left behind the world created by God's own hands, but that would be no matter. The tenets and beliefs he followed were etched deeply into his mind. He knew them by heart. And he would follow them. He would be the first of his Lord, even here, and strike down such injustice wherever he came across it.

A long, low breath hissed out of his lips, as they curled back to reveal his teeth. And if he was to undertake such a mission...he would enjoy it. He squared off his stance, blades at the ready, and crouched down, readying himself to spring. "Come, ye children, hearken unto me: I will teach you the fear of the LORD."

[Roger Smith]

"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.

[Roger Smith]

His first strike as he surged into the ranks of his chosen enemies turned the gleaming flash of silver into a wet splash of red. One of the bandits had a moment to view his own intestines as they spilled out, through a mess of shredded flesh and flailing strips of ruined leather, before he toppled over in a messy, red puddle. A wheezing, desperate rattle of breath as the man fumbled about, trying to stem the tide of blood and life pouring out of him, incoherent babbling of pain spewing from his mouth. His eyes glazed over, arms going still.

The executioner of God turned aside, his eyes slowly sweeping about over the remainder of his foes. His shifting posture elicited a soft, gentle tinkling sound from the cross hanging about his neck. The lapse in movement allowed another strike to land on him, a spear bursting through his chest as it was thrust into his back. The sheer force of it lifted him from his feet, leaving him momentarily suspended in the air as both blades fell from his hands, embedding point-first in the earth. The immense weight of the insane priest was too much to hold up for long, even for a strong man. Gravity won out, and he slid back down along the haft of the weapon, toward its terrified owner. Feet touched the ground, and rather than the crumple into death one might have expected...his legs continued to hold, bearing his weight.

In a blur of gray, Anderson's left arm flashed up, grabbing hold of the spear just forward of where it emerged from his chest. And he pulled. The man behind him, still holding the weapon, gave a frightened yelp and released it, staggering back. With a single, long motion, the entire haft of the weapon was pulled through the wound, with a splattering of blood.

"W-What the hell are you?!" the spearman demanded, now several paces back and fumbling for his backup weapon, a short sword at his hip.

God's Assassin turned about slowly, the spear still clutched in his hand. A mad, delighted grin was on his face, eyes hidden behind a sheen of silver and gold blazing in his glasses, reflecting the light of the sun. "The eyes of the LORD are upon the righteous!" In the blink of an eye, there were three quick steps, and a sickening crunch of impact, a wet squelch, and the spearman was transfixed, his own weapon piercing his chest and nailing him to the ground. Like a fish out of water, his mouth worked, open and closed, staring at the polearm piercing his torso. Shaky hands lifted up to grasp it, trying to pull it free. A flash of silver removed his head and put an end to his attempt. "...and his ears are open unto their cry." Anderson turned again to survey what remained of his opposition, seeing they had all gathered together in one front now. All together, leaving him no more chance to catch them isolated. Wise. But foolish.

Many more of them had drawn bows and crossbows now, likely from within their wagons. Staring down the point of a dozen bolts, gleaming dully with the rough black of crudely worked (but still all too effective) iron, Anderson didn't show an iota of fear, merely giving his free hand a twirl, another blade flashing into life in his grasp. This time, the keen-eyed among the pack of pilferers saw it. A billowing in his sleeve, before the blade shot down into his hand.

"So it's magic..."
"That's how he holds so many!"
"Damn fool's got some tricks up his sleeve — literally!"
"That's a hell of a place to keep weapons!"
"How many does he have?!"

"Shut yer traps!" the boss bellowed, giving one of them near at hand a rough smack upside the head. "It's talk and behavior like that what's let him make a fool of ya so far! Get it together, and keep it that way! Fight with some sense, not like a bunch of green recruits!"

"Hear ya, boss!" one of the bowmen said.

"Good. Now, then, if you'd be so kind...FIRE!"

At the word, every bow and crossbow snapped. A dozen bolts and arrows whistled through the air, each one finding purchase in the priest's body. His limbs, body, even one through his throat, tearing a chunk out of the side. The onslaught sent him toppling over onto his back, amid a pool of blood and visible viscera, through the many wounds adorning his body.

"You're tougher than an ox, Father, I'll give you that...but I doubt even you could stand up after something like that." Bertrand turned aside with a grin. "Who's the one what got him in the throat? Five gold to them!"

A hand raised, from one of the crossbowmen. "That'd be me boAUUh..." He was cut off in mid-word as a blade pierced his chest. Gleaming stark silver, quivering with the force of impact. A chilling, rattling breath came from the distance, blood spurting wetly onto the ground. The blade in the crossbowman's chest let out a worrying click, a cap on the end jettisoning off. Thick red smoke billowed out, a harsh glare blazing from within the handle along with a deep, fizzling hiss.

Only the boss was wise enough to guess at what was about to come next. With wide eyes, he roared out an order to "DUCK AND COVER!" as he did exactly that himself, leaping into a roll behind one of the ruined wagons, just as an explosion tore apart the unfortunate crossbowman who had 'caught' the blade, and a deafening boom of noise and hail of shrapnel rocked the world of those near to him.

In the distance, the Executioner had regained his feet. Methodically, systematically, he plucked at the arrows and bolts embedded into his flesh and ripped them out with a fountain of blood each time. And with every movement, there was a soft, gentle chime from the cross about his neck.

[Roger Smith]

"Wh-What in the hell...?" Bertrand just stared, his eyes wide. That...that damn priest had been dead! All the damage he'd taken, and then he went down, and... And now he was just back up, like nothing had even happened! The damn bastard was spurting more blood than a fountain, riddled with so many wounds he looked like a corpse, and he was still standing! This had gone way beyond an attempted highway robbery, this was now moving into a struggle to get out of this alive. Or sane.

"B-Boss, what...what's goin' on?"
"What do we do now?"
"How are we s'posed to fight that guy?"
"Should...shouldn't we just run?"

"Shut yer traps!" the bandit leader roared, and one of his meaty fists impacted the ground with a resounding crak-crash. Spidering cracks spread around the point of impact. His teeth ground against each other. He needed to come up with something here. Anything. Some bright idea to take this freak of a holy man down, and then get out of here with his hide intact. These poor fools around him, this gang of idiots, they were replaceable. They were expendable. Peons to do the work for him. Meatshields and disposable walking corpses, meant just for situations like this. There just to slow down things he couldn't handle easily, distract the big obstacles so he could get away and come up with a plan. Bertrand was a fighter, sure. But he was a thinker, first. And right now, he was thinking that it was time to fucking bail on this shitshow.

"Look, I got a plan," he said, forcing his voice into a composed, calm tone. He rose up to stand, dusting off his pants. He fetched his axe, dropped in the scramble to hit the deck and avoid the explosion. "All of you. Rush him at once." That was met with a resounding chorus of surprised and terrified responses. "Shaddup! Listen, you've all been goin' after him one at a time, or with just two or three of ya. Go at him all at once, mob him from every direction, don't give him a chance to hit you back. That's how ya take him down!"

There was a tense moment of quiet, the band of thieves murmuring among themselves and discussing the plan. Betrand was silently praying they were all as dumb as they looked. It was a sound idea, normally. Surround the old man and hit him from all directions at once, take him down before he could fight back. But this guy...this old priest was something else. It probably wouldn't work. At least not as well as he was hoping. But it would keep them all distracted, and let Bertrand escape. Back to his headquarters, with the rest of his boys and girls. Gather them all up, all the hundreds of them. Then they could come back and really take this guy down. He just needed time.

...and time was something he was going to get, as the band of idiots reached a conclusion. "Yeah, that should work!" one said, the rest falling in line and voicing similar agreement once one had spoken up. With renewed confidence, they stepped forward. Sixteen of the original twenty-five they'd started this with. Even with such reduced numbers, they still had a more than sizable advantage. This was going to be easy!

None of them noticed as their glorious leader turned tail and slunk away down the road, off the bank and into the bushes. His massive bulk disappeared among the greenery, slipping off toward a treeline some hundred or more meters distant, without so much as a single glance back. He was all but certain that his underlings were dead. If any of them returned alive from this, it would be nothing short of a miracle. They'd be remembered, for being brave (if incredibly stupid) and a good distraction. That was all he ever wanted out of peons that followed him. Maybe a little common sense and backbone that didn't need to be constantly set back up, but you couldn't have it all. Besides, a little cowardice now and then was good. Made them easy to keep intimidated and under control.

[Roger Smith]

Bertrand heard his goons charging at the priest, boots pounding the road as they surged into the fray. Darting left right and center, weapons ready. Archers and crossbowmen, what were left of them, going for the high ground to get a clear shot. The others fanned out and circled around, hemming him in. It was a systematic, simple strategy that he'd beaten into them. Had to be effective, if they were going to be useful. He could hear them getting to work, weapons swinging. Wordless shouts and cries of battle.

...but it was all incredibly short-lived.

He'd scarcely run three dozen paces when he heard a chorus of terrified shrieks. From his men. He stopped in surprise. Then staggered as if drunk when a series of explosions tore apart and overpowered every other sound. Just like the one which had torn apart their barricade, but dozens of them. The sheer force of it, the thunder and the shockwave, was enough to leave him unsteady. He toppled over, pitching face-first into the rough grass. "What in the fuck..." He slowly rolled over, staring back toward the road. Smoke. Dozens of thin, wispy trails of smoke, spiraling lazily into the sky. Dust and blood, both smells choking out the air. And it was dead silent now.

Only the errant breeze, whispering through the grass.

"The fuck...was that? Crazy old man had that many of those damn exploding knives?" Bertrand forced himself upright, into a sitting posture. A hand came up to rub at his forehead, a headache already coming on. So much incompetence from his own men, and now this insanity on top of it. Never mind a god damn thunderbolt or thirty going off in his head with every one of those explosions. The only good thing that came out of this all was that after a mess like that, all that firepower? There was no way anything was still standing. Holy man had taken himself out along with the rest of that worthless bunch of peons. Thank goodness for small favors.

A light rustling noise in the treeline, off the side of the road, disturbed him from his thinking. Everything was still shrouded in a haze of smoke and dust, leaving it hard to see much...but he could still hear it. Could still make out, unmistakably, the sound of boots. Crunching over small bits of stone, crushing twigs and leaves underfoot. Strides pushing through tangled limbs. A long coat flapping in the breeze.

Looming out of the smoke and dust, there came a grim sight. A flicker of gold, in the shape of a cross. A soft, jingling noise, like a god damn wind chime as it shifted from the motion of its wearer. Twin discs of silver, unseen light reflecting eerily off of glasses. One lens broken, leaving only a half-moon shape. Face cast into shadow before the spectacles. And twin blades of silver, glimmering and sparkling. Pristine, untouched, another fresh set of weapons. Held in hands far too steady for a man who'd taken as much punishment as that impossible fucking priest had.

But Bertrand was positive. Stalking out of that exploded hellhole, it was no one else. Couldn't be anyone else. And what he also knew...was that he wasn't fucking dealing with this. He knew very well how fast that fool was. And what he also knew was that he was faster. In a straight dash, over open terrain like this, where Bertrand knew the area better? No way he was getting caught.

In a flash, the towering bandit captain was up and moving. A blur of grey and the battle-scarred paladin shot out of the haze like a shot, and tore after him.