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Wicklighter and a trooper saves a life, as Rion leaks and they fight the flow. The Resolute Crows form up in a half pike wall around them. The dust settles. The Dunerunner fades away in the swirl of sand. One of the troopers yell a curse. In the swirling sand, eight other Windsworn relocate too. They didn't get the ambush they were looking for.
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Luz fights in gruelling hand to hand as dogs pour around and underneath. But fourteen on one is not a fight if you are not Martinos the Grand, Moth Circuit Champion, and few clever tricks work against such a disparity of numbers.
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Markhan sees Rion jet off in a spray of released energy and his own droplets. He pries bent arrows out of his armor. Rights his helmet. One of the troopers pass his Halberd along. No one looks . . . Too worse for wear. And in his hand? A mark of victory. A seldom seen trophy. The acroument of one who dances the wind. A ragged, arrow-holed old cloak, clearly handwoven and worn with endless pride.
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Scarlett and the troopers inch up ahead, scouting carefully. Distant shapes move to evacuate the village, withdrawing in good order. A few stay behind to form up the rearguard. They have arrows at the ready. They'll leave last, ensuring all their allies are safely away.
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Zivka clicks tongue to get the mule closer and the stubborn beast does exactly the opposite. Edward has to bite down a sharp curse. What absolutely rotten luck.
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The Windsworn who have just found eight months pay in two saddle bags cannot BELIEVE their luck.
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>RESPONSE PHASE
