[color=39b54a]"Fuck the money,"[/color] Maulakanth said to Cedric when Blood-Red Brynn managed to bring the fury of the locals upon them and got to his feet quickly. In the interest of fairness, the orc would have left his blades sheathed in an ordinary tavern brawl but these Bretons were quite clearly insistent on having them all killed. Maulakanth spotted knives, sickles and even a flanged mace in the hands of the enraged farmers and carpenters. This was going to be a good scrap, and a good opportunity to show everyone exactly who was the boss here.

He leapt over the table, past Cedric, and raised his hands up to grab the hilts of the swords slung diagonally across his back. The orichalcum weapons left their sheaths with an ominous rasp. The two swords were long and heavy, slightly curved in that typical Orcish fashion, with a jagged and irregular edge. Maulakanth bared his tusks at the Bretons and growled a deep, ululating purr in the depth of his chest. The brawl had already broken out around him in full force, but several of the locals hesitated for a few seconds. They looked at each other, finding courage in numbers, nodded, and charged at the orc. [color=39b54a]"Big mistake,"[/color] Maulakanth sneered, and started laughing.

Everything went red as Maulakanth willingly gave in to the berserker's rage that always bubbled beneath the surface of his race. He could feel the spurned wrath of Malacanth give power to his limbs and the sulfuric rage of Mauloch lend weight to his strikes. Maulakanth bent his knees and arched his back, crouching slightly and lowering his center of gravity. The Bretons fell upon him like a wave, but the orc had become a rock in the surf. His blades moved and twirled with preternatural speed to deflect and parry multiple blows at once. The four Bretons surrounded him and hacked, slashed and smashed away -- to no avail. Maulakanth turned and pirouetted with all the grace of a dancer and his swords were everywhere. It was a beautiful defense, but the orcish bloodthirst singing in his veins demanded that he go on the offensive. 

He roared, an ear-splitting, primal noise that made the Bretons flinch, ducked low and spun his swords around him, arms extended. The tips of his blades cut through thighs and abdomens alike, depending on the height of the Breton in question. Howling in pain and alarm, the four men stepped away, gingerly feeling their wounds. They had only suffered superficial cuts, but first blood was first blood. Maulakanth gave them no time to recover and rushed at one of the Bretons. The man panicked and lifted his dagger in an attempt to deflect the attack, but it was like trying to stop a sabre cat with a spoon. 

The Breton ceased to be. Maulakanth's twin strikes were so vicious that the man fell to the floor in three pieces, slick with spurting blood. To the orc's surprise, one of the other Bretons used this opportunity, now that Maulakanth's back was momentarily turned, to stab him in it. Orc hide is tough and the blade was dull and of poor make, but it managed to nick Maulakanth and draw blood all the same. Maulakanth barely felt the pain, clouded as his mind was, and wheeled around at top speed. The Breton's little stab was repaid with a disgustingly strong thrust to the ribcage. Bone shattered as Maulakakanth's orichalcum blade ran the man through entirely. He barely had time to process what happened to him before his heart stopped and Maulakanth savagely kicked him off of his sword. [color=39b54a]"NEXT!"[/color] Maulakanth bellowed as he swung his blades around him with a flourish. His bare chest was flecked with blood, his eyes were wild and gore dripped from his swords. Truly, he was the Hand of Mauloch.