The field was littered with corpses, all of which used to be goblins. The ground was slick with their blood, black as tar, perhaps just as dangerously flammable- it will likely set a man on fire with infection should it ever get into his wounds. The most important thing was that they did it- they were pulling through, they had somehow survived the onslaught of goblins brought about by the Melenian luring them to the group.
After killing the previous three goblins at once, Annabelle was spent. Exhaustion bit into her muscles deeply as she fought the few remaining goblins who took her to be their target- perhaps due to her prominent outlook: the shine of her armor, the intricate designs carved into the slopes of her protection, her warskirt bearing the colors and symbols of her order, her sallet helmet which suggests prominence in the form of wealth, station and importance. All the more fun, probably, for the goblins to take down such a figure.
As soon as she eviscerated the previous three goblins, Annabelle fell back in line with the rest of the questors, and redirected sideways the pike of one goblin with her swords before her actions, like water, flowed to execute a stock attack of hers- with scissor-like motions, Annabelle half-beheaded the shrieking thing just above the lower jaw. It was not a clean beheading, a clean beheading being to chop the head off around the neck, as the goblin was too short. It worked nontheless.
Another came in from the side, wielding a tree branch as a club- the crudest of crude weapons, perhaps one used by the most distant ancestor of men, yet it could potentially still do some damage. As Annabelle was in mid-motion with her scissor strike, she was open to an attack... If it weren't for Louis Pennyworthy, who sweeped his spear at the would-be attacker, pushing it back. Brian, who was fighting close to Louis, stabbed the goblin after it was thrown to the ground by the sheer force of the younger Pennyworthy brother, rivetting it for a time on the ground before the elder of the two withdraws his rusting scimitar. The younger is not without achievement- after assisting in the death of a goblin who could have potentially caused the death of their mistress, the spearman went on to skewer another goblin who was coming down upon then with another club.
And then something caught her attention, something eerie and yet familiar, foreign and yet homely. "Die." A faint voice in the wind, a word uttered softer than a whisper, something hanging in the air even after the instance it was said was over. Annabelle, after seeing that she was safe at the moment, with her soldiers of light guarding her, turned in the direction of the word, which was never Rodorian to begin with. It sounded like... True Word. Half expecting her nemesis, that lecherous demonspawn to be breathing down her neck, Annabelle was pleasantly surprised to find no one directly behind her, but she did find Olan standing some distance away, near a tree. 'That old coot', Annabelle thought. In her mind, she was agitated, agitated that he was standing all the way back, just watching, rather than helping. On second thought however, Annabelle could understand, even if grudgingly, that perhaps the nightwalker was getting old, no matter how much of an explorer or adventurer or whatever she could not remember extraordinaire he was.
Annabelle was unable to explain away the True Word that was spoken as if by a spectre, but the thought of it hung in her mind, foreboding yet enticing to her at the same time.