Pulren's shoulders slumped in frustration as the orders whispered by Rick were heard by Thurman. He had suspected that Sarge was overcompensating, but he really had believed that the Wizards were either too far gone or wrapped up in their games to notice. Hearing their cruel companion jeer at them was just too much.
Looking to his left, it was suddenly apparent that something was happening to Rick. A sudden jolt of surprise crossed his features and a strangling sound began to creep from his mouth. The petching bastard was killing his Sergeant and friend, all the while continuing with his insults. The former fumes of fear were leaving the young Guardsman, being steadily replaced with piles of steaming anger. Each word that spilled from the Wizard's mouth only increased the heat that piled upon itself in Pulren's gut.
Before he could act, the sound of metal scraping against wood was the only warning for a sword's cold metal blade to strike at his shoulder, tearing through the fabric of his uniform and scratching his shoulder. The sting of the pain only threw kindling on the burning blaze. The sword then moved in the air and stopped near his throat, the drivel of the mage drowned out by the thumping of Pulren's heart in his ears. A swiping slice caught him just below his throat, blood blotting against the azure uniform he wore. If his blood could change to steam and push through his ears in red clouds of flaming mist, it would.
Suddenly, an arrow sunk into the Wizard's chest, the look of utter shock drawing a smug grin from Pulren, delighted in the apparent death of their deranged captor. A man stepped from the shadows, fit and armed to the teeth. Pulren looked over his assortment of weapons, blades and arrows. He couldn't have been much older than their savior of the day. Listening closely, the Wave Guard was completely in tune with Tyler and his own Sergeant. These bastards would pay, there was no doubt of that.
"You're no coward, Tyler. We thank you. Tactics are always best over frontal assault, unless there is nothing left. Let's bleed these vagiks." It was no surprise to him that the Guards were out recruiting help from more mages. It was exactly that kind of greedy reliance on magic that had caused so much turmoil in the Spring of 514. It was what was wrong with Zeltiva. Nuit and mages running the majority of the town with the military pressed to the coastal borders. He was sick of Wizards, his own Sergeant even trying to join their ranks. Steel, wood, sweat and grit were going to win this day.
Looking back to the young mercenary, Pulren rolled his neck on his shoulders, preparing himself mentally for the fight to come. "Tyler, you are a sure shot with your bow. Aim for the man in gray, the bitch with him uses fire. I'm going to keep her occupied. We'll stay out of your shot." His head down, he began walking toward his gear which sat next to the edge of the right side of the ship. He looked at the ground, making sure to avoid eye contact as his steps were even but still at a normal gait. Squatting at his arms and armor, he fitted the shield on his left arm as he fished his straight razor out of his pack. He folded it and slipped it in his belt at his back while picking up the trident.
Standing, he walked forward toward the flaming Wizard, a look on his own face as he brought his eyes to face her own. It was not the bawdy seduction she had worn prior. It was death. Once within reach, his aim would be to throw his weight into her with his shield and knock her over. If she fell, he would go down with her, pushing his trident into her soft spots, wherever they may have given purchase.
Looking to his left, it was suddenly apparent that something was happening to Rick. A sudden jolt of surprise crossed his features and a strangling sound began to creep from his mouth. The petching bastard was killing his Sergeant and friend, all the while continuing with his insults. The former fumes of fear were leaving the young Guardsman, being steadily replaced with piles of steaming anger. Each word that spilled from the Wizard's mouth only increased the heat that piled upon itself in Pulren's gut.
Before he could act, the sound of metal scraping against wood was the only warning for a sword's cold metal blade to strike at his shoulder, tearing through the fabric of his uniform and scratching his shoulder. The sting of the pain only threw kindling on the burning blaze. The sword then moved in the air and stopped near his throat, the drivel of the mage drowned out by the thumping of Pulren's heart in his ears. A swiping slice caught him just below his throat, blood blotting against the azure uniform he wore. If his blood could change to steam and push through his ears in red clouds of flaming mist, it would.
Suddenly, an arrow sunk into the Wizard's chest, the look of utter shock drawing a smug grin from Pulren, delighted in the apparent death of their deranged captor. A man stepped from the shadows, fit and armed to the teeth. Pulren looked over his assortment of weapons, blades and arrows. He couldn't have been much older than their savior of the day. Listening closely, the Wave Guard was completely in tune with Tyler and his own Sergeant. These bastards would pay, there was no doubt of that.
"You're no coward, Tyler. We thank you. Tactics are always best over frontal assault, unless there is nothing left. Let's bleed these vagiks." It was no surprise to him that the Guards were out recruiting help from more mages. It was exactly that kind of greedy reliance on magic that had caused so much turmoil in the Spring of 514. It was what was wrong with Zeltiva. Nuit and mages running the majority of the town with the military pressed to the coastal borders. He was sick of Wizards, his own Sergeant even trying to join their ranks. Steel, wood, sweat and grit were going to win this day.
Looking back to the young mercenary, Pulren rolled his neck on his shoulders, preparing himself mentally for the fight to come. "Tyler, you are a sure shot with your bow. Aim for the man in gray, the bitch with him uses fire. I'm going to keep her occupied. We'll stay out of your shot." His head down, he began walking toward his gear which sat next to the edge of the right side of the ship. He looked at the ground, making sure to avoid eye contact as his steps were even but still at a normal gait. Squatting at his arms and armor, he fitted the shield on his left arm as he fished his straight razor out of his pack. He folded it and slipped it in his belt at his back while picking up the trident.
Standing, he walked forward toward the flaming Wizard, a look on his own face as he brought his eyes to face her own. It was not the bawdy seduction she had worn prior. It was death. Once within reach, his aim would be to throw his weight into her with his shield and knock her over. If she fell, he would go down with her, pushing his trident into her soft spots, wherever they may have given purchase.