Just as Keys began to inch away from his hiding spot he heard a heavy thump from the barricade. He turned around slowly, squinting toward it. There was another thump, then a third and an alarm was raised, thick accents shouting into the muffling swamps. Keys turned back to the tree, pressing against it and observing the scene. From the wood line Keys witnessed a group of men, soldiers by all accounts, make their way to the gate of the palisade. Farther along, a lone woman dashed through the trees, seemingly acting as bait.
As the group swung around to the entrance of the fort, one of the members started a dialog. This seemed to confuse the brigands as the entire encampment went into a frenzy. Keys couldn’t help but chuckle, despite the carnage. It ended as quickly as it had begun, most of the brigands were dead, and it seemed only the man in charge was wounded. Keys shrugged off the tree with a sigh and began walking back toward his horse when sudden movement in his periphery drew his attention.
He whipped his head just in time to see a woman get pulled into a thorn bush by a man. Before he even heard her scream, Keys was in a dead sprint toward them. Admittedly, a middle-aged man in armor is not the fastest, and it was of no help that Keys had a certain distaste for exercise. He did, however, make it to the area in his own record time.
Without halting his pace or even missing a step, Keys planted his sword blade into the mud and dove into the thorn bush. His bulk, amplified by his armor and speed, crashed into the man just as he dropped the limp woman. Keys could hear the man’s teeth crunch as his jaw slammed shut, driven into his head by Keys’ armored shoulder. They landed in the mud, the man on his back, hacking blood from his ruined mouth. He sputtered something unintelligible at Keys, who answered him with an almost regretful look as he slammed his fist into the man’s already broken nose a few more times.
Keys stood up, breathing heavily, and wiped some of the blood from his glove on to his breeches. He eyed the crumpled body in the mud. The bandit was still alive, but he’d be eating exclusively soup for the remainder of his life. Then as if suddenly remembering, Keys turned to the woman in the thorn bush. She was covered in little wounds, her skin was pale, and she seemed unconscious, but at least she appeared to be breathing, if ever so slightly. Keys reached down, gently lifting the woman from the bush and laying her down on some of the less squelchy mud he could find. The knight unclasped his honey-yellow cloak and covered the woman. He then sat down heavily beside her, trying to catch his breath.
Reaching out he gave her a cautiously shoved her shoulder. She looked like she’d live.
“Hey,” He wheezed, “Wake up.” His Murkran accent wasn’t as thick as rural folk, but it was still present. He looked over to his sword, sticking out the mud like a like a tiny monolith, then laid down on his back to catch his breath. He’d get the sword later.
As the group swung around to the entrance of the fort, one of the members started a dialog. This seemed to confuse the brigands as the entire encampment went into a frenzy. Keys couldn’t help but chuckle, despite the carnage. It ended as quickly as it had begun, most of the brigands were dead, and it seemed only the man in charge was wounded. Keys shrugged off the tree with a sigh and began walking back toward his horse when sudden movement in his periphery drew his attention.
He whipped his head just in time to see a woman get pulled into a thorn bush by a man. Before he even heard her scream, Keys was in a dead sprint toward them. Admittedly, a middle-aged man in armor is not the fastest, and it was of no help that Keys had a certain distaste for exercise. He did, however, make it to the area in his own record time.
Without halting his pace or even missing a step, Keys planted his sword blade into the mud and dove into the thorn bush. His bulk, amplified by his armor and speed, crashed into the man just as he dropped the limp woman. Keys could hear the man’s teeth crunch as his jaw slammed shut, driven into his head by Keys’ armored shoulder. They landed in the mud, the man on his back, hacking blood from his ruined mouth. He sputtered something unintelligible at Keys, who answered him with an almost regretful look as he slammed his fist into the man’s already broken nose a few more times.
Keys stood up, breathing heavily, and wiped some of the blood from his glove on to his breeches. He eyed the crumpled body in the mud. The bandit was still alive, but he’d be eating exclusively soup for the remainder of his life. Then as if suddenly remembering, Keys turned to the woman in the thorn bush. She was covered in little wounds, her skin was pale, and she seemed unconscious, but at least she appeared to be breathing, if ever so slightly. Keys reached down, gently lifting the woman from the bush and laying her down on some of the less squelchy mud he could find. The knight unclasped his honey-yellow cloak and covered the woman. He then sat down heavily beside her, trying to catch his breath.
Reaching out he gave her a cautiously shoved her shoulder. She looked like she’d live.
“Hey,” He wheezed, “Wake up.” His Murkran accent wasn’t as thick as rural folk, but it was still present. He looked over to his sword, sticking out the mud like a like a tiny monolith, then laid down on his back to catch his breath. He’d get the sword later.
