[i]Shink, slash, shink[/i]. Sarel’s blade finds it’s way around a stalwarts shield, slicing into the man’s breast. Sarel rolled between the two Company guards and stood on the other side of their offense. He quickly turned in order to slice through to one of the guards spleen. His wakizashi was then plunged into a second guards throat. Even more guards from the east ran across dock lanes, two by two they jogged along to defend… what? The precious cargo of the East Empire company? Not so much. They fought for honor, because they were told to. Sarel fought for similar reasons, but he had something else as well. Sarel had personal stake in this heist, he wanted the brisk ocean air again, the unsteady ground of the wooden deck. He wanted to be free of his own accord, he wanted a stake in his own destiny, once and for all. 
The onslaught of guards tripled by the time Sarel had taken out his third victim in the last, short ten seconds. 

“Oi, I’ve been wounded elf” one of the imbicile’s said. His forearm was bleeding all over the man’s hand, which he held in place to staunch the wound. Sarel was trying to count the incoming forces and so only shrugged his shoulders. “Blasted, Elf! You know magics, heal me!” The man placed the hand of his wounded arm atop Sarel’s left shoulder, he squeezed as tight as he could, which was pitiful. 

“I’m not that kind of Elf.” Barked Sarel, not raising his voice. The fight from the ship seemed to move downstairs, Sarel had an inkling that the crew might have to depart ahead of schedule. Without paying any more mind to the oaf Sarel walked to his side, toward a different lane which the guards would have to walk down to reach the ship. Sarel now felt rather relieved that he’d blown the other lane to bits, and the guards would have to take a detour to reach him. As he jogged, which he did to intercept the first group of guards, he noticed a figure in the distance, running toward him. Sarel stopped at a juncture and watched the figure break through the treeline and sprint down the dirt road toward the dock. The movements were consistent and dedicated, each muscle moved with exactness. Some sort of plated armor gleemed in the darkness of the moonlight and Sarel knew at once who it was. 

Serge, corundum plated armor clunking deftly in the sea air, finally walked into torchlight on the docks. Sarel smiled for a moment and wait for his friend to join him. It was a strange turn of events that Serge might end up here. Then Sarel noticed the red banner which flowed from Serge’s waist so coyly, it was Imperial colors. Serge sauntered up, his hand resting on the longsword which hung from his hip with a weight befitting an anvil. He looked resolute, and Sarel thought he might have to fight this man. Instead Serge stopped right in front of Sarel and offered his hand. 

“I figured I’d join you after all.” He said, the Breton manners shining through. 

Sarel decided he’d need to wait to ask questions, which meant he didn’t fully know Serge’s intentions, something he’d have to live with. Instead he asked Serge for a favor. 

“Could you gather the men on the boat, tell them to get it up and running? We need to leave.” As Sarel spoke several dozen guards were making their way down the lane. Serge nodded and went off. 

Serge was quick and competent. The other recruits might not have recognized him, but they recognized his type. He was born leader, as he was now. 

“Raise the main sail! Oh, it’s already up, never mind, it’s bloody dark. Let it fly, all hands on deck!” He called out to those left on the docks. The two morons guarding the loading ramp joined the others on the boat. 

Sarel hurled fireballs down the isle with little regard, he hit someone every time. The smell of charred leather and skin alike wafted in the air as Sarel relentlessly pelted the oncoming horde of guards. The narrowness of the lane made it very difficult for them to fight back. Some archers took aim but either missed or were promptly taken out by a fireball. Soon the troops fell into rank, smartly, and shielded themselves, like good Imperial soldiers. They inched forth, filled with fear, fire raining down upon them. Sarel was sweating profusely, his eyes rolled back into his head and he was taken over by the ancestor. He let fire fly from his hands and strike out at his enemies, he’d never felt quite as divine as he did at that very instant. 

Serge watched from the wheel of the boat at the fiery display. Eventually the boat was all set to leave and one of the recruits came over to Serge to say so. For some reason the recruits had taken instantly to Serge’s commands, he was irrevocably in charge in Sharee’s absence, a person he, ironically, knew very little about. But, if he knew her plan, and if Sarel understood it as well, she’d want this part of the process to begin, and if she did not, it was too late now. 

“Sarel!” the corundum clad Breton called out, “Come!”

Sarel awoke from his godly slumber and the heat around him shocked him. His clothes had begun to burn and his blood was boiling. Sarel quickly stopped and ran down the lane from which he came. His boots met the ground heavily as he raced toward the departing boat. The loading ramp cracked in two as the boat edged from the dock, fell into the briny deep. Sarel prepared himself for what he’d need to do. The sounds of metal clanking behind him propelled Sarel forth, he set his foot on a peg at the edge of the dock and jumped into the air. His jump was majestic, at least eight feet high, he floated through the air with grace, illuminated by the fire behind him, he moon above him, and the future before him. Sarel landed the ten foot gap easily and turned to get a good look at the sight behind him. The soldiers gazed in disbelief, scratched their heads. Sarel and Serge met eyes, and they smiled childishly as they had in their cells on that fateful day of their meeting. Sarel fell to one knee as all of his energy left his body at once. He collapsed against a barrel and rubbed his head, hoping everything had gone as planned.