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Luz lunges for a feeling Windsworn. We need information and intelligence to find out what this is all about and we need it from living, breathing Windsworn, not the dead lying across the field. This must be why they're carrying away their wounded. Luz gets his hands around his target and begins pulling away.
Of the 21 people he heroically attacked on his own, some continue moving. Others notice their missing partner not filling in the ranks and spin about, drawing knives, coming to quick conclusions.
Luz grinds his feet into the road and shoves away two attemps on his life, kicks a counter to a third and takes three more as the knives keep on coming, the smoke, the dust, the wind, it makes it hard to see them!!
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Rion feels a sharp, imaculate sting of pain. Critical hit. Vital puncture. The wound is small, circular, clean through the uniform and it simply will not stop bleeding. First aid bandages won't fix this one. You need medical attention. NOW.
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Markhan drops his halberd (1AP), throws the cloak (1AP) and it sails through the air, infused with Scraghound repellant. The churning tide of teeth spread around it, some bounding into the bushes and disturbing the aim of ambushing archers. The wide, fluttering cloak absorb two more hits - sometimes you get lucky and even Probos winks at you across the endless table -and then with 1 AP, Markhan equips his reinforced Breacher shield and the three men around, though riddled with arrows stand on their feet, lock shields, and to the sound of Zivka's loyal hound barking its kin at bay, they wheather the storm. Arrows stick out of the ground. Out of the hounds. Out of the shields. Out of Markhans armor, like some sort of hedgehog, he's sprouted quills.
But the hounds are lessening now and look! They had that pre-prepared, lying in wait, readying an Aimed Attack. Absolute lethal, but their arrows are spent and the first thing they do is sprint away as far as their legs can carry them, heading towards their distant friends.
Markhan looks at the Dustcloak, wrapped around a stickbush. Billowing there. One might not think it, but that - right there - is a trophy very few people have ever acquired in close quarters combat. On the vast Uthani Plains, across the Leviathan Strait, the Grasscloaks and Reedcloaks fight their endless sectarian wars. But in the Wastes, there are the Windsworn, who follow the Soaring, and heed the Tumbling and the Windsworn have but one knightly commanding caste of officer-cadet-clergy supreme. The Dustcloaks.
That arrow riddled, dog bitten, trampled, shredded thing? You wear that across your shoulder and you get free drinks in every bar from here to the coat.
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