>>5717353Fighting a foe made of magical energies—or so your enemy appears, at least—you reason that there can be no better tool than an implement meant to penetrate glamour and magical defence. Unfortunately, the only such weapon at hand is, of course, the Serpent Khopesh of your would-be-successor. The weapon is well-weighted and deadly, but not ideal for such close quarters as you currently are embroiled in. You consider using your assassin’s blade in your off-hand but—curses!—you never DID get any real tutelage from the Drow Duelist Azonia in such technique, and now of all times is far from the ideal situation to learn. You’ll have to make do…
>16Luckily, you are still an accomplished swordsman—a SWORD AMSTER, in fact, and a wielder of the Hexblade’s art… And one of the key facets of being a Hexbalde or n Antipaladin is fighting with all you have, even if it is ignoble or inelegant. In this case, this means a pommel-smash into the masked face of the floating, luminescent menace.
The lagomorph roils back , disoriented. It doesn’t fall to the ground, though; rather, the True Fey tries to float away. You grin, blinking away the sunspot-like artefacts in your vision as, even half-blind, you spy an opportunity.
“I don’t think so, spirit,” you snarl in accented elventongue.
>17You twist the khopesh around, and lash out, snagging the fleeing creature with the hooked end of your khopesh. You catch the back of its knee. The point at the back of the hook sinks in, blade secure in spectral fey-flesh just as it would be in the more tangible sort of which you and your fellow mortals are composed.
“Iron!” it cries. “It has iron! Cold iron! Dark and hateful IRON!”
“Not quite,” you remark, wrenching back and pulling the fey-thing into your clawed clutches, “but near enough, Child of the False Gods!”
The hare-fairy cries out. It is an awful sound, like a warren of rabbits—a dozen warrens—being murdered more foully. Your companions cry out, and you feel your own soul quiver and quake…
“ENOUGH!” you roar.
You are a True Dragon—in soul, at least—and you will not be cowed! Summoning up the full might of your iron will, you drag the fairy down to earth., slamming it in place. It has no air in its lungs to knock out—maybe no lungs—but when you lift your sickle-sword high and bring it down to split its mask, it geos silent sure enough. It has no retort but a single, tortured squeak that verges on death rattle…
