The first of the horrors is well and truly felled by the axe of the Iron Bull—and then some. It does take an uncomfortably long time to hack all the way through the neck, especially when one of its arms gets in the way in a futile attempt to fend off the repeating blows, but once the head finally falls free of the body, it shudders itself down to the stillness of a steaming corpse. The ground there is a horrific mess, littered with heavy lyrium shards and streams of blood, all mingling with the churned up mud. A red vapour lingers in the air where the soldier fell.
That's Harper gone. Harper, who would sit by the fire and whittle sticks down into curiously beautiful shapes, whose laughter was a prize to be won by a cleverly told tale or bawdy joke.
Samson turns back from the sight of his man dying in plenty of time to slap the mage's staff out of the air with his blade, a gesture that snaps, get this nonsense out of my face. What comes next, however, is absurd enough to wipe the sneer from his face entirely: the sight of a mage spitting a flame so large that it rapidly engulfs the whole world. Or so it feels. He recoils at once, face tucked against his arm, and turns his hunched back to the onslaught. He isn't fool enough to stand here and hope that his armour will protect him entirely from such a blaze—although it could, conceivably, an unexpected field test is not ideal—and so he dashes for the closest piece of cover, which isn't much cover at all, just a stone protruding from a knee-high hump in the terrain.
Tucked in close, a flaming gale rushing past his ears, he curses aloud as flash-boiled snow spatters on his face. No one hears him, probably, and not even because of the roaring fire.
It's more likely that those not currently breathing hot ruin on Samson are too distracted by the sudden explosion localized in a certain red templar's neck. It is quite an impressive sight, in a grisly sort of way. One moment, the horror is clawing at its own throat, and the next it is flying violently apart from the chest up. Gore bursts in all directions, and shrapnel too, shards of armour and lyrium both. Anyone on the field will be hard pressed to avoid being hit.
The body falls to the ground, the middle of its torso reduced to a cavity full of shredded offal. A haze of particulate matter settles around it, same as the other.
The two red templars on the other side of Norrington's shield are now bellowing with renewed ferocity at the loss of their comrades. Having found his footing again, the one sandwiched between shields bears down doubly hard, both now working in unison to drive their foe back across the turf, eyes blazing hot and teeth flashing inside their helmets. These are no mere soldiers, these are tainted men, fuelled by the red and powerful in their righteous fury.
"You'll pay for that, scum!"
It's not a threat, but a promise. Maker help him should he fall.
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That's Harper gone. Harper, who would sit by the fire and whittle sticks down into curiously beautiful shapes, whose laughter was a prize to be won by a cleverly told tale or bawdy joke.
Samson turns back from the sight of his man dying in plenty of time to slap the mage's staff out of the air with his blade, a gesture that snaps, get this nonsense out of my face. What comes next, however, is absurd enough to wipe the sneer from his face entirely: the sight of a mage spitting a flame so large that it rapidly engulfs the whole world. Or so it feels. He recoils at once, face tucked against his arm, and turns his hunched back to the onslaught. He isn't fool enough to stand here and hope that his armour will protect him entirely from such a blaze—although it could, conceivably, an unexpected field test is not ideal—and so he dashes for the closest piece of cover, which isn't much cover at all, just a stone protruding from a knee-high hump in the terrain.
Tucked in close, a flaming gale rushing past his ears, he curses aloud as flash-boiled snow spatters on his face. No one hears him, probably, and not even because of the roaring fire.
It's more likely that those not currently breathing hot ruin on Samson are too distracted by the sudden explosion localized in a certain red templar's neck. It is quite an impressive sight, in a grisly sort of way. One moment, the horror is clawing at its own throat, and the next it is flying violently apart from the chest up. Gore bursts in all directions, and shrapnel too, shards of armour and lyrium both. Anyone on the field will be hard pressed to avoid being hit.
The body falls to the ground, the middle of its torso reduced to a cavity full of shredded offal. A haze of particulate matter settles around it, same as the other.
The two red templars on the other side of Norrington's shield are now bellowing with renewed ferocity at the loss of their comrades. Having found his footing again, the one sandwiched between shields bears down doubly hard, both now working in unison to drive their foe back across the turf, eyes blazing hot and teeth flashing inside their helmets. These are no mere soldiers, these are tainted men, fuelled by the red and powerful in their righteous fury.
"You'll pay for that, scum!"
It's not a threat, but a promise. Maker help him should he fall.