The general's armour is a work of art, and he'd say so himself in another circumstance. Maddox truly outdid himself this time—the Elder One had a hand in it, of course, but by the grace of Maddox's skill, his patience, his tireless work, the steel's final shape more than satisfied their master's lofty expectations.
And in this shape has Samson become a living fortress.
The big qunari gets him on defense, as expected. Then comes that bloody self-righteous knight, and the swordswoman, quick as you please. Samson weathers their attacks with his head ducked and gauntlets raised, jaw clenched and eyes burning. Although his armour has been singing beneath a storm of both glancing scrapes and solid blows, it will not buckle. Even in the snow and mud his footing is unshakeable; he knows just where to put his feet, when to step and how to brace, and will not be staggered. Not by anyone.
When Norrington comes rushing in, Samson meets him with a sneer, draws on the power in his blood, and swings the corrupted greatsword down just in time to meet the top edge of the arriving shield with a crushing blow. His aim is to force the shield down, to drive it into the earth, to deny the templar his charge—and perhaps give him a scar to remember.
"How's that for proof," he snarls at Bull, wherever the qunari's ended up by now.
There is no fear in Samson's eyes, but neither is he laughing. Sweat pours down the back of his neck. The fabric on his back, embroidered with Kirkwall's crest, is half blackened and still smouldering along its edge. He's older than all three of them, no longer as quick as he once was, but they'll tire. Their armour will split, their weapons shatter. Their resolve will falter. He can outlast them all.
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And in this shape has Samson become a living fortress.
The big qunari gets him on defense, as expected. Then comes that bloody self-righteous knight, and the swordswoman, quick as you please. Samson weathers their attacks with his head ducked and gauntlets raised, jaw clenched and eyes burning. Although his armour has been singing beneath a storm of both glancing scrapes and solid blows, it will not buckle. Even in the snow and mud his footing is unshakeable; he knows just where to put his feet, when to step and how to brace, and will not be staggered. Not by anyone.
When Norrington comes rushing in, Samson meets him with a sneer, draws on the power in his blood, and swings the corrupted greatsword down just in time to meet the top edge of the arriving shield with a crushing blow. His aim is to force the shield down, to drive it into the earth, to deny the templar his charge—and perhaps give him a scar to remember.
"How's that for proof," he snarls at Bull, wherever the qunari's ended up by now.
There is no fear in Samson's eyes, but neither is he laughing. Sweat pours down the back of his neck. The fabric on his back, embroidered with Kirkwall's crest, is half blackened and still smouldering along its edge. He's older than all three of them, no longer as quick as he once was, but they'll tire. Their armour will split, their weapons shatter. Their resolve will falter. He can outlast them all.