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You kick the corpse of the last orc from your sword-lance with more effort than it should have taken. The butchery of the day, the <span class="mu-i">heat</span> of the greater demon's ichor, the sight of the men and women brutalized by what you can only <span class="mu-i">hope</span> was the sole object of the cult's worship, all of it has left you sore and weary. Yet there is no time for weakness here. The time for tears and prayers will come when the men and women responsible for these atrocities have turned to ash.
Still, you can at least afford yourself a moment's pause to quench your thirst.
You are not fool enough to remove your helm upon the battlefield, but there is a little switch that allows the panels of the visor to fold back. They retract like shutters on a set of wooden blinds. Your eyes are left covered by the red rubies of the Owl's Lenses, but your mouth is freed enough to take a long swig from your canteen. The cool relief that rushes through your veins feels almost as good as the healing granted to you by the Lord of Light.
With a roll of your neck, you are ready to proceed. Marching forwards to the front of the tower, you pass by a kitchen filled with human remains and an empty mess with bloodstained tables. Your blood boils at the sight, the rage your family is heir to bubbling ever closer to the surface, but you manage to hold it back.
In the foyer, you can see the doors have been barred. Crude barricades have been thrown up by scattered, panicked goblins who hide behind them, clutching misshapen iron spears to their breast. Such weapons could never hope to penetrate steel. The only weapon that would have a chance at piercing armor is the falchion held by one of the most obese swine-orcs that you have ever seen.
He waits at the side of the door with his weapon at the ready, no doubt hoping to flank any intruders that manage to break it down. His corpulent body has become a pincushion of crossbow bolts, though none have stuck him in the vitals.
He and the goblins turn when they hear your boots stamp against the tower's stone floor.
"<span class="mu-i">BUHIIIIIIIIII!</span>" the orc squeals his warcry and raises his falchion, ready for battle. His goblin brothers have much less courage, for they know their weapons cannot do much against one who is fully clad in steel.
You do not let the orc make another move. With a mighty hurl, you throw your sword-lance with such strength that it pierces him clean through his iron armor and pins him to the castle walls. As the lights die from his eyes, you advance on the goblins. The clank of metal striking metal rings through the foyer, followed by the crunch of bone beneath steel boot.
With one dead by your bare hands, you take the thing it called a spear and use it to slay his brothers. The barricades cannot defend them from an enemy that attacked from behind, so they are easily dealt with. A few upon the second floor dare shoot you with arrows. They clank uselessly off your armor, but are an annoyance...
