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As Lucian removed his scythe from the neck of the Giant he once again steadied himself upon the scythe. Below him was roughly four feet worth of muscle and tissue severed apart to reveal a vein that was nearly as large as Lucian. It was like a spring, how the blood flowed out of the wound.
He straightened himself. In this moment he could not show weakness, he must show that he is beyond stronger than any of them. If he was weak, then those bottom feeders would come to end him.
<span class="mu-s">“Damned worshippers of Chaos.”</span> Lucian spoke as he raised his head towards what he thought was the ceiling. In truth it was hard to know where he was looking thanks to the dust and dazzling lights dancing across his vision, <span class="mu-s">“My blade has brought downed the damned Grimidal!”</span>
Lucian felt the winds brushing by his face as vision seemed to slowly return. The place was so much more dim than what he wished for, but it was bright enough for the Knight to see the numerous faces of cowering Norscans looking at him in wonder.
<span class="mu-s">“I bring death in the name of Morr and the Lady! Albion is not and will never be yours.”</span> Lucian told the assembled crowd with a yell that commanded them to act, <span class="mu-s">“If you value your pitiful lives then flee, for the retribution of the True Gods is in order!”</span>
That was enough. Lucian watched as like a tide the Norscans began throwing themselves over one another. Their fear was palpable, a tinge of salt that tastes like ashes when it touched the senses. An acceptable taste for such lowly peoples.
Lucian could hear the roar of Bok as the Kroxigor swiped at the numerous warriors that were running by it. He did not give chase though, his body covered in so many scars that he would only hurt himself far more chasing down such men.
Lucian had to keep himself standing as he witnessed these fools run. Not a single moment could he relent and simply sit, he had to stand there as a Symbol of the Gods against these ungodly creatures.
The only saving grace Lucian had as he stood was something slowly drifting down from above. Carried on the winds of the gods was a single banner who hosted a great lion upon it. The Knight held it within his hands, the Banner of a Royarch, the last of what remains of his King.
There, Lucian felt it appropriate, he felt it was time to kneel. Not because of exhaustion, but in prayer. That the Soul of a Grail Knight should pass on to the Lady as it should.
