Snippet #1515225

Don’t kill them? Talae supposed that made sense, it was just a weird order to receive. She looked down at the sword in her hands and the oncoming rush of people and wished her hand-to-hand was better. It wasn’t completely hopeless, but to say she was talented would be an overestimation of her skills. Why was she never adequately prepared for these things?

Well, she did know where to cut a person to make them bleed but not die, but she was not fond of the idea of what would essentially be ritualized torture. So what, then, was she supposed to do exactly? She didn’t have a great deal of time to consider it, because the first person made it to herself and Kisikoni at that moment, followed by thirteen or so of his closest friends.

Blocking the incoming swing of a pitchfork, she decided to try and make the best of it. If she used her sword to mostly block, she might be of some assistance to the barehanded man next to her and the others a bit further away. It was worth a shot anyway, and so she shifted to a one-handed grip and threw a punch with her other hand, stepping in close enough to catch the lamia squarely in the stomach. He doubled over, and she improvised, planting the pommel of her blade at the base of his neck, though not in time to avoid being caught around the waist by his tail.

Well this was problematic. Could she risk cutting at him? Did lamia have vital arteries in their tails? She had to admit that she usually didn’t get hired to kill them specifically, and this particular subject represented a gap in her understanding of humanoid biology. She was lifted off the ground and flailed her legs, trying to catch a foot on something tender. Either it worked or someone else incapacitated him, for the grip slackened and she was slammed back into the ground.

Picking herself up with an irritated mumble, she got impatient for once and swung her sword sideways in both hands, the flat of the blade connecting solidly with the temple of an incoming orc. He dropped like a stone, and for this at least she was grateful. Last thing she needed was to be crushed by the heavy piece of wood with nails in it. That just screamed infection.

She noticed that by this time Thanaros had joined them, and he appeared to be having a much easier time being a threat to consciousness but not life than most of them. She couldn’t see Neira or Wrath at the moment, but knew they were both somewhere in the area.

She kneecapped a fellow dark elf and received a pitchfork tine to her forearm for her trouble. If she wasn’t unsure if they’d bleed out before they could see a healer, she’d be attempting to slice off limbs right now, but her options were limited. The pitchfork was sharp enough to tear the flesh of her arm even through the leather there, but dull enough to hurt like seven hells when doing so, and she was forced to move her grip permanently to her left arm, her right one useless by her side, but shifted a little behind her to hopefully avoid further damage.

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“You remind me of someone I once knew,” Alistair told his host, sipping delicately from the soup she offered. It was rich in taste, and he probably wouldn’t be able to eat much of he ever intended on flying again, but it was good all the same, and warmed his rather chilly insides.

“Do I now? An orcish woman, I take it?” there was a trace of amusement in the tone, and he caught on swiftly enough.

“Er… yes, but that’s not why I am reminded of her. It’s just something in your demeanor, I suppose. She was a healer, you see, very kind, though not perhaps in the most conventional of ways.” He couldn’t say any more than that, but she simply nodded and did not inquire further.

“So tell, me, Legionnaire. What’s a bird like you doing with weapons like those? Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t seem the combative type.”

Alistair chuckled. Wasn’t that the truth? “I’m not… or rather, I am only because I have to be. There isn’t exactly much hope for a harpy who can’t defend himself, and well… as much as I would rather be a scholar or an artisan, it is a soldier that was needed. Does that make sense? Sometimes, I am not so sure.”

“No, I understand. Sometimes, we do what we must, and there is little other choice. An artisan, though? What craft would you take up, if you had the choice?” She took a seat across from him, with her own food in hand.

“Would you believe I’d always wanted to be a blacksmith? I don’t look much like one, I know, and it’s not a common trade of my species, but then, well…” he shrugged.

“Hn. That’s fair enough.”